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An Illustrated Monthly 



Vol, XL. 

XonOon : 


STREET, STRAND , I9I ° Original from 


< * 

■J; v 


ACCIDENTAL MAGIC; or, Don't Tell All You Know. A Story for Children ... E. Xesbit. 825 
Illustrations by H. R. Millar. 


Illustrations by A. Moreaux anil from Photographs. 


Illustrations from Photographs. 

ART IN THE PRISON CELL Frederic A. Felton. 553 

II lust rations from Photographs. 

ARTISTS AND ARTISTES Written and Illustrated by Harry Fumiss. 35 

Illustrations by Gilbert Holiday. 


Illustrations from Photographs. 


Illustrations from Diagrams. 

BISHOP'S RIDE, THE R it hard Marsh. 324 

Illustrations by Frank Gillett, R.I. 


Illustrations from Diagrams. 

BUDGET OF TARES, A Austin Philips. 62 

Illustrations by Gilbert Holiday. 

BY ADVICE OF COUNSEL P. G. Wodehouse. 95 

Illustrations by Charles Crombie. 

CASK ASHORE, THE 4. T. Quiller-Couch (" Q» ). 357 

Illustrations by H. M. Brock, R.I. 

CHANGELINGS, THE F. Anstey. 660 

Illustrations by H. M. Brock, R.I. 



Illustrations from Diagrams. 


Illustrations by H. Sandham. 


Illustrations by E. S. Hodgson. 

C0LBY 'L c IHl^ w. *: s. s,oi, INDIftNA urvm^wiT LrafflW*** ™- * 

COLOUR-BLOTS Alan Willis. 688 

Illustrations from Photograph*. 

CURIOSITIES 118,246,374,502,625,834 

Illustrations from Photographs and Facsimiles. 



DANCING, THE REVIVAL OF Wendell Phillips Dotty. 441 

Illustrations from Photographs. 

DESERTER, THE £. Phillips Oppenheim. 729 

Illustrations by C. E. Brock, R.I. 


Illustrations by H. M. Brock, R.l. 


Illustrations by A. Garth Jones and from Paintings, Photographs, and Sketches. 

"DID SHE TELL HIM?" A Problem Story for Women Elizabeth Banks. 232 

Illustrations by W. Dewar. 


Illustrations from Photographs. 


Illustrations from Photographs. 

EMPEROR AND THE BABY, THE Harriet Pre uott Spofford 406 

Illustrations by S. H. Vedder. 

ENGLISH OF THE COUNTESS, THE iuriviFi.-??i i S?!T? y^H'P Cardinal. 449 

Illustrations by Hal Hurst. INDIANA UNIVERSITY 


Illustrations from Drawings. 



illustrations by W. B. Wollen, R.I. 


Illustrations by Joseph Simpson, R.B.A. 

i "FLUKES" ... 

*• Illustrations from Diagrams. 


Illustrations from Photographs. 


Illustrations by Dudley Hardy, R.I., R.8.A. 


Illustrations by Sydney Seymour Lucas. 


Illustrations by C Fleming William;.. 


Illustrations by Gous^e. 

HYMEN'S KNOT, UNTYING. Interesting Facts About Divorce 
Illustrations by Joseph Simpson, R.B.A. 


Illustrations from Photographs. 


Illustrations from Photographs. 

I.— The Adventure of the Fair Patronne. 

Illustrations by Alec Ball. 


Iilu>t rations by Cyrus Cuneo. 


Illustrations by W. H. Margetson, R.I. 


Illustrations in Colour by Hany Rountree. 

MAGIC CITY, THE. A Story for Children 

Illustrations by Spencer Pryse. 


A. Drysdate-Davics. 

An Interview with Mr. Albert Young 

Frank Savile. 

Morley Roberts. 

... .John Roberts. 

Carmen Tutia and Miss Lily Elsie* 

... Charles Garviee. 

Mrs. Baillie Reynolds. 

C. C. Andrews. 

John J. Ward, F.E.S. 

T. Sturdee. 

William J. Locke. 












Edivard Price Bell. 461 

E. M.Jameson. 289 

... P. G. Wodehouse. 184 

iYesbit. 109, 239, 365, 492, 616 

Arthur Conan Doyle. 259 

228, 791 

A Birds Hotel 

Heart-Beats by Telephone 

A. E. W. Mason. 
E. Temple Thurston. 

... 129 

... 340 
.. 341 

77, 172 
387, 5" 

Illustrations by Gilbert Holiday. 


Illustrations by Arthur Hogg and from Photographs. 



44 Mothered" by a Monkey 335 

Skating Throi oh London 336 

** Water-Shadow*" 338 

Illustrations from Photographs and Sketches. 

Illustrations by W. H. Margetson, R.I. 

Illustrations by W. H. Margetson, R.I. 


Illustrations by Will Owen. 

"OLD MAN, THE." A Project for a Novel Newspaper 

Illustrations from Photographs and Old Prints. 


Illustrations by Steven Spurrier. 


Illustrations by Joseph Simpson, R.RA. 


Illustrations by Adrian Berrington. 


Illustrations from Photographs. 

iERPLEXITIES Henry E. Dudeney. 

Illustrations by H. A. Hogg and from Diagrams. 

PHOTOGRAPHY, THE ROMANCE OF PRESS .. .. ' ^QWalter T. Rberts. 469 

Illustrations from Photographs. 

W. W. Jacobs. 

Phillips Oppenheim. 
. P. G. Wodehouse. 





117, 238, 364, 501, 624, 822 





Illustrations by \V. Edward Wigfull. 
PORTRAITS, LIFE-SIZE. The King and l w >ueen and Their Children 

Illustrations from Photographs. 


Illustrations from Photographs. 


Illustrations by Charles Crombie. 

PRUNELLA ... ... 

Illustrations by (Albert Holiday. 

Illustrations from Photographs. 


Illustrations by S. Davis and K. E. Wiles. 


llluHiiations fjom Photographs. 


Illustrations by Chas. Crombie and from Facsimiles. 


Illustrations by Gilbert Holiday. 


Illustrations from Photographs 


Illustrations from Photographs. 

Illustrations from Drawings by Joseph Simpson, R.B. A. 


Illustrations from Drawings. 


Illustrations by Harry Rountree. 


Illustrations by Joseph Simpson, R.B. A. 


Illustrations by Gouss6. 


Illustrations by the Author. 


Illustrations by Dudley Hardy, R.I. 


Illustrations from Photographs. 


Illustrations by S. Davis, 


With Facsimiles from the Betting- Book of White's Club. 


Illustrations by Will Owen. 


Illustrations from Photographs. 


Illustration*, by Joseph Simpson, R.B. A. 


Illustrations by Alec Ball. 

Illustrations from Photographs and Old Prints 


Illustrations by W. R. S. Stott. 


Illustrations by H. JM. Brock, R.I. 


Illustrations by W. R. S. Stott. 


Illustrations from Photographs. 

Constance Clyde. 

... Frederic A. Felton. 

Richard Marsh. 

Charles Gat vice. 

A Talk with Mr. R. A. Roberts. 

E. Phillips Oppenheim. 

Charles Haivtrey. 

William Fraser Doak % M.A. 

Arthur Ccnan Doyle. 
The Adventure of thr Devil's Foot. 

Mrs. Hcrbeit Vivian. 

Fredetic Thompson* 

Joseph Simpson , R.B. A. 

Arthur Cottan Doyle. 
Horate Annestey Vac hell. 

Harry Furniss. 
E. Bland 

...John Worne. 

... Bernard Darwin. 

IV. IV. Jacobs. 

John J. Ward, F.E.S. 

... P. G. IVodehouse. 

C. H. Bovill. 

»» . •• *■• •■■ 

Morley Roberts. 

E. M. Jameson. 

Morley Roberts. 

Harol4 J. S heps tone. 

















Original from 

HEET. AND EXET|l|^[^|^,| ffjfypp '^pON, ENCLANIX 

/"* 1 Original from 






{Seepage 17.) 




Illustrated by Joseph Simpson, R,B,A, 

F Kitty Drew had done as 
she once proposed and had 
written an essay on fathers 
she would have been unjust 
to many excellent men. Her 
j experience of fathers was 
limited. It was, in fact, con- 
fined utterly to her own, and her own was 
an uncommon person. He was not only a 
misanthrope j but a misogynist as well 
Taking this view of the world in general it 
was not likely that he would smile on young 
men as lovers. He reduced his own clerks 
to anguish and despair; they shook their fists 
at him and shook the dust of his office from 
iheir boots as soon as they could get another 
job at nearly the same money. Such male 
friends as he possessed he entertained at 
his club; they never entered the flat where 
he was currently reported to keep a very 
pretty daughter guarded by an ironclad 
great>aunt of imperishable virtue and incal- 
culable ugliness. He had no feminine friends; 
his view of his own brief married life was 
that he had been temporarily insane. His 
wife's view was that she also had been mad 
to marry him, and she died with no other 

regret than Kitty, If she had been a student 
of heredity she might have had hopes for her 
daughter's future. A hard father is pretty 
sure to run up against some of his own 
characteristics in his offspring, and though 
Kitty was as sweet as violets she had as 
much courage deep within her as her armoured 
and cuirassed aunt could boast Never- 
theless, being sweet, she was long-suffering, 
and endured the slings and arrows of 
her outrageous fortune till she was twenty. 
On her birthday her father presented her with 
a shilling copy of the "Meditations of Marcus 
Auretius rt and her aunt gave her a thick veil 
Kitty opened Marcus Aurelius and, having 
read a few solemn remarks which were all 
very well for a Stoic ent[>eror but had little 
relevance to the life of a pretty girl in 
Kensington, put the book down again with 
lifted eyebrows, 

"Good heavens," said Kitty, scornfully; 
** it's all about wisdom ! " 

She inspected the thick veil with much 

11 Aunt ■fiBQa^fcSfOffly complexion. She 
doesn't tttiMttNfh^lU^^&Yon to be seen. 
But it shall be seea j; 


She painted in water-colours, but her coin- 
plexion needed no paint. Any painter 
would have yearned to depict it on canvas, 
and Kitty had a very strong notion that one 
artist did yearn to put it there. She would 
have had no objection, but, as he had only 
seen her twice in 
the street when her 
aunt was convoying 
her, she had no 
chance of telling 
him so, 

"But I would— 
yes, I would ! " said 
Kitty, She knew he 
was a painter, for 
she saw paint on his 
coat-sleeve the first 
time they passed 
each other in the 
street, and the 
second time there 
was an accidental 
patch of cobalt blue 
on his cheek* He 
also had cobalt-blue 
in his eyes, blue 
that looked merry 
and would not wash 
out, while his 
moustache was a 
very pleasing tint, 
being the colour of 
brown madder with 
a little chrome 
yellow in it. The 
second time they 
passed in the Ken- 
sington High Street 

he looked at her pleadingly, and Kitty's 
heart beat ninety to the minute instead of 
a modest eighty, 

" He'd like to speak to me/ 1 said Kitty. 
" I wish he would, but I wouldn't let him, of 

Then she added : — 

"Wait till Tm twenty !" 

Now she was twenty, and had Marcus 
Aurelius and a thick veil to prove it. 

"What shall I do?" she saicl, when she 
went back to her little sitting-room, where 
she faked pretty water-colours and mourned 
for the passing of youth. 

" Oh, Polly, what shall I do ? " she cried. 
And the parrot, who was as wise as Marcus 
Aurelius or any owl, put his head sideways 
and said nothing* 

"Silly bird," said Kitty ; "weYe both in a 
prison. You don't seem to mind it, But 


I do. To think that I can't go out by 
myself even at my age," 

It certainly was ridiculous, but Miss 
Araminta Bolt, the armour-clad aunt, always 
went out with her, 

" I get no chance/' said Kitty, sadly. 

Miss Bolt never 
meant to give her 
one* Her sole desire 
was to keep her 
niece unmarried. 
She could not have 
explained why. It 
was in her bones, 
and as she was all 
bones Kitty had no 
opportunity of 
escape, unless 
something strange 

She went on 
painting and think- 
ing, and had lunch 
with the impene- 
trable aunt without 
seeing any way out 
of the flat into real 

" Put on your veil 
and come for a 
walk," said the im- 
penetrable one. 

"I can't see 
through it," said 

11 You can't be 

seen through it, you 

mean," said Miss 


"Yes, that's what I do mean," said Kitty. 

She felt she could endure no more. She 

must be open, even if rude, or perish for 

ever. Her aunt glared at her, 

"You actually mean you desire to be 
seen ? M she asked, ferociously. 

"Why not?" asked Kitty, airily. «I 
rather like it," 

" You rather like it — oh, I must speak to 
your father, 1 ' said her aunt. "This is pre- 
posterous ! You never said such a thing 
before. I wish I had bought a thicker one," 
"I could have used it as a blanket," said 
Kitty, as she went to her room. 

" What has come to the girl ? " asked 
Miss Bolt, " I am alarmed — really alarmed. 
Has she^ in spite of my tender, unremitting 
care, seen o? spoken to— a Man ? " 

ThttltiJANfctyWVfiflSITifiot a man ; he was 
her nephew, and he disliked men as much p.s 


she did. A Man to Miss Araminta Bolt was 
someone with a bright eye and a quick 
tongue — a creature who ran after and 
devoured pretty girls, one a week at the 
least They were all wicked, not to be 
trusted during five minutes by any woman. 

" I fear she has seen a Man," said Miss 
Bolt. Nevertheless, she took Kitty into the 
Gardens, and when they were safe inside 
she breathed more easily. There are large 
desolate spaces in the Gardens free from men. 
She chose the largest and emptiest of them, 
and walked in the middle of it, eyeing every 
vista as if a lion in the shape of a godlike 
youth were likely to issue from it and bear 
off Kitty. Kitty walked beside her, but her 
mind was not there, nor was her heart. 
Though she had not by any means sur- 
rendered it to the artist with cobalt- blue 
eyes, her mind was very busy with him. He 
was actually and without doubt the very 
first man she had ever seen in her life who 
seemed sympathetic, and when anyone is 
sympathetic his eyes speak most eloquently. 
"You are very silent, Kitty, " said her 

" Yes," said Kitty. 

" Why is it ?" asked Majesty in buckram. 
" I haven't anything to say," replied youth 
in chains. 

" Have you read any of Marcus Aurelius 
yet?" asked her aunt, by way of making 
light conversation. 
"No," said Kitty. 

" Let us go home," said her aunt, curtly. 
She was moved to do this, not only by Kitty's 
conversation, which was either the result of 
impudence or incipient idiocy, but also by 
the fact that a Man was seen coming their 
way with long strides. Kitty saw him, too, 
and put up her veil for an instant. Afar off 
she recognized the fact that the man was an 
artist. He was carrying a pochard box and 
a light easel. 

" I believe he's Cobalt-Eyes," said Kitty. 

With a dexterous hand she undid her veil 

at the back and, letting it fall, trod on it 


; "Oh, dear, my veil fell off," said Kitty, 

J "and I've trodden on it, aunt" 

" Most extraordinary," said Miss Bolt 
And then the Man passed them. He looked 
at Miss Bolt firmly, doing it in k way that 
increased Kitty's respect for him. She 
had seen strong old men quail when meet- 
ing her aunt's grey eye. Then he looked 
at Kitty and smiled, and suddenly looked 
* sad too. 
j Then a remarkable thing happened. The 

artist, using great dexterity to accomplish the 
feat, put the legs of the easel between his 
own legs and fell headlong. 

"Oh, dear; oh, dear!" said Kitty. For he 
went down quite heavily. The pochard box 
flew three yards and came open and all the 
paints tumbled out and lay scattered on the 
grass. Miss Bolt stopped, transfixed with 
horror. She might not understand Kitty, 
but she did understand that if this wretched 
stranger had really hurt himself she would have 
to stop and speak to him. She now regretted 
she had chosen that particular open space. 

"Oh," said Cobalt- Eyes. He made an 
awful face, a face of extreme anguish. Such 
a look would have inspired pity in Medusa's 
self. Kitty clasped her hands. 

" Oh, aunt, he's hurt himself," she cried. 

Miss Bolt clenched her fists and advanced 
majestically. " Have you hurt yourself?" she 
demanded, as if she were going to hit him. 

" I'm afraid so," said the stranger, caressing 
his ankle. 

"Can you move?" asked Kitty, anxiously. 

" I doubt it," said the stranger ; " it's most 
silly of me. How did I do it ? " 

" It was the easel," said Kitty. She began 
to pick up the paints and restore them to the 
pochard box. 

" Can we do anything for you, sir ? " 
demanded Miss Bolt, reluctantly. 

"Oh, what? "asked Kitty. 

"Perhaps you might," said the artist, "if 
you would be so good. 1 " 

"What shall we do?" demanded Miss 

He said his name was Carey and that 
he lived in the block of studios two streets 
away, at Number seventeen, but perhaps if they 
would be kind enough to call at Number ten 
on the ground floor his friend Simpson would 
come and help him home. 

" Very well, we will call on Mr. Simpson," 
said Miss Bolt. "Good morning. Come, 

"Here's another tube," said Kitty. She 
put it in the box, closed it, and carried it to 
Cobalt- Eyes. 

" Oh, how sweet of you," he whispered. 

" I'm so — so sorry," said Kitty. 

They exchanged looks— very remarkable 
looks. His said she was too pretty for words, 
and that it was -an awful shame that she had 
her aunt with her, and that he would love 
her till death. Hers were more reticent, but 
not at all discouraging, for they agreed with 
his on the subject of aunts, and said she 
rather liked him. 

" Come, Kitty," said her aunt, sternly. 



And Kitty fancied she heard him say: — - 

"Good-bye, dear Kitty. 75 

Of course she knew that must be imagina- 
tion. Nevertheless she went quite pink, and 
was glad to have the veil, which she put 
on quickly, to hide her complexion from 
Araminta Bolt's fierce scrutiny. 

lt It's most unfortunate," said her aunt. 

"Yes, poor fellow/' said Kitty, 

" I mean having to speak to one total 
stranger and to have to go to the studio of 
another. Studios are, I am credibly informed, 
dens of infamy," said Miss Bolt, severely, 

Kitty, who was very happy, did not con- 
tradict her, though she did not believe it. 

(i I think he's delightful. It's the third 
time I've seen him + I wonder if he — oh, how 
silly lam!" said Kitty to herself, 

Her aunt knocked at the door of Number 
ten, and was confronted by a merry-looking 
man m his shirt sleeves. Rut he looked less 
merry when he saw Miss Bolt. 

" Yes t madam ; what is it ?" 

"If you are Mr, Simpson, I have to inform 
you that a Mr* Carey is in the Gardens with 
a sprained ankle and desires your assistance 
in returning home/' said Miss Bolt, gloomily. 

" Good Lord ! Tom Carey ! " said Simpson ; 
M you don't say so ? What part of the 
Gardens ? " 

" Not far from the Round Pond/' said 
Miss Bolt* "Good morning*" 

"Good morning, madam,* said Simpson. 
" Til put on my coat and nip out," 

He flW^W.*rtf^STVy and stared hard 

at her, as any artist might* 


"Come, my dear," said Miss Bolt. And 
from that lady's point of view the incident 
was closed. She had done her duty, and 
was satisfied with the sacrifice she had made 
to it by calling at a "den of infamy." Kitty 
was also satisfied. She knew Cobalt-Eyes' 
real name, even his Christian name, and 
where he lived, and felt that he took a great 
interest in her. No one but the young can 
tell what it is to find that an interesting 
stranger thinks about them. Kitty would 
have been even more pleased than she was 
if she had heard her injured friend talking to 
Simpson. For Simpson did as he said. He 
put on a coat and hurried to the Round 
Pond. He found Carey without difficulty, 
for the painter with the sprained ankle was all 
alone in the middle of a space smoking a pipe. 

" Halloa," said Simpson, "what's all this 
about ? Are you hurt ? " 

"Not a bit," replied Carey, happily. 

" Why, a preposterous person in black and 
steel said you were," cried Simpson. 

" She thought so," said Carey. " In fact 
I said I was." 

"Said you were? I don't savvy," said 
Simpson, who was a great scallawag, and, 
having been all over the world, had gathered 
a pretty stock of slang. 

" Did you see the girl with the old piece?" 
asked Carey, who was also rather slangy. 

" Rather ! She was sweet. I'd like to 
paint her," replied Simpson. 

" You won't ! I will. It was all for her 
sake I did it," said Carey. 

" Did what ? " asked Simpson. 

"Tripped myself up with my own easel. 
I went an awful socker," said Carey. " Her 
name's Kitty — she's a darling. I'm in love 
with her. She was very sorry for me and 
picked up my paints. It's a case with me. 
I wonder what her other name is." 

" What an ass you are," grunted Simpson. 

" Of course I am. You are, about Edith," 
said Carey. "If it's safe I may hobble home 
now. I suppose the ironclad damsel of 
seventy winters, as old Malory would say, 
is at home by now." 

He rose, picked up his easel and pochard 
box, and went to his studio. 

" I'm going to find out who she is and 
where she lives, and I think I shall marry 
her," said Carey. 

" Idiot," said Simpson. 

That is what Kitty called herself. For she 
could not help what her own mind kept 
saying to her. It talked as if it were another 
person — a chum who would say nice and 
disturbing things. 

" He loves you, I'm sure," said Kitty's 
chum. " And you love him." 

"Nonsense," replied Kitty; "nothing of 
the sort. Still, he was nice, and he looked 
as if he liked me. Tom Carey ! It's a very, 
very nice name." 

" Mrs. Carey," suggested her mind, and 
Kitty blushed till she was nearly the colour 
of her parrot's reddest feathers. 

" Oh, dear," she said, " I wonder if I shall 
ever see him again ? " 

She looked forward to a series of dim, dull, 
impossible days, unlightened by the sun of 
his presence. Weeks — stupid, endless, pre- 
posterous weeks, might pass before Cobalt- 
Eyes looked at her again. 

" How shall I endure it ? " she asked. 
She picked up Marcus Aurelius. He was 
horribly wise, and might tell her how to 
endure it Was he not a Stoic? And Kitty 
understood that a Stoic could endure any- 
thing. She came instantly on the following 

" Then hath a man attained to the estate 
of perfection in his life and conversation 
when he so spends every day as if it was his 
last day " 

"Oh, nonsense," said Kitty; "just as if a 
man could. Or as if I could. And I won't." 

She preferred to spend every day as if it 
were the day before her first day. For the 
first day would certainly be when someone 
said he loved her to utter distraction, or 
used words to that effect, even if he didn't 
tear his hair about it. But the notion so 
upset her that she jumped up and spoke to 
the parrot, who looked as wise as Marcus 
Aurelius, but had a touch of human wicked- 
ness in him as every parrot has. 

"Good old Polly," said Kitty. 

Good old Polly opened up his head 
feathers and bent to be scratched. So long 
as Kitty scratched he almost purred, but 
when she withdrew her finger he tried to 
bite her. 

"Bad old Polly," said Kitty, and Polly 
whimpered and then looked at her with the 
intelligence of a satiric philosopher. 

" He looks as if he knew," said Kitty. 
" Do you know, Polly ? " 

" Scratch-a-poll," said Polly, with an evil 

" I love him," said Kitty. " I— I do ! " 

She spent the afternoon thinking about 
him and about herself and about her father 
and about her aunt. At four o'clock Miss 
Bolt entertained with tea and her conversa- 
tion three old maids who had all her horror 
of men. Kitty handed them their cups and 



wished the tea was something frightfully 
intoxicating, or anything to make them 
natural and lively. When the ordeal was 
over she read aloud to her aunt. It was a 
book on Peace. Kitty read it as if it were 
about war and revolutions, for she was in 
revolt. After this daily sacrifice to her 
aunt's astigmatism she tried to paint dear 
Kensington Gardens from her window, which 
looked sideways on it. She went out on her 
little iron balcony which overlooked flat roofs 
only a storey below her. From her balcony 
a steep iron fire-escape went down to them. 
This same ladder also went up to the storey 
above. Her father, who had a large interest 
in the flats and owned the two next houses, 
had put it there, because he dreaded fire as 
much as Araminta dreaded men and marriage. 
Kitty often wished to climb the ladder and 
look into windows, and see if there were 
tragedies and comedies going on inside. If 
there were tragedies she hoped they were 
more entertaining than her own, for the 
greatest tragedy of all is for nothing to 
happen. She also thought it would be 
delightful to climb down upon the roofs 
below. She saw in the distance several sky- 
lights and had often noticed light in them 
when it grew dark. 

"I believe — oh, I do believe, they're the 
windows of the studios," said Kitty, with a 
gasp. And then the sun went down and the 
shadows of night came fast. She heard her 
father come in and she sighed, put away her 
water-colours, and dressed for dinner. When 
she saw her father he kissed her perfunctorily 
and asked if dinner was ready. He thought 
a great deal about dinner and also about 
stocks and shares, rubber and Rhodesians, 
and tin from the Straits Settlements. He 
could talk about these things with animation 
which excited wonder in Kitty. 

" How do you like the book I gave you ? " 
he asked, when the joint was removed. It 
was his second remark. His first had been 
about the soup. 

"Oh, Marcus Aurelius. I — I think he's 
rather dry," replied Kitty. 

"You shouldn't say that a book your 
father gives you is dry," said her great-aunt. 

"Why not," asked Kitty, "if it is dry?" 

"Life is dry," said her father; "it is 
necessary to get accustomed to the fact. I 
bought it in order to cultivate the philo- 
sophical side of your character." 

"I haven't a philosophical side to my 
character, papa," said Kitty ; "have you ?" 

" I suppose so," replied her father ; " oh, 
ves, of course." 

"And do you like the book yourself?" 
asked Kitty, 

" I've not read it," said Mr. Drew. 

" It recommends you to live every day as if 
it were your last," said Kitty ; " do you think 
that's right?" 

"Quite right," said her aunt; "I do so 

" I prefer to live as if every day was the 
day after to-morrow," said Kitty, pensively. 

" I don't see how that can be done," said 
her father. 

" It's quite easy, I think," replied Kitty ; 
" but do you live as if every day were your 
last, papa ? " 

Mr. Drew wriggled uneasily in his chair. 

" Not exactly, perhaps, but it's only right 
and proper one should " he replied. 

" Why is it right and proper ? " asked 

" I daresay Marcus Aurelius explains that," 
interrupted Miss Bolt. " You shouldn't worry 
your father at meals, Kitty." 

" Certainly not," said Mr. Drew. " I hate 
being worried &t meals." 

" Well, certainly I didn't begin about old 
Marcus Aurelius," said Kitty. 

" Don't be pert, girl," said her aunt. 

And Kitty smiled, while Mr. Drew went 
on eating as if it were to be his last meal on 
earth. When the cheery repast came to a 
close Kitty retired to her own den, took ofl 
her frock, put on her dressing-gown and 
slippers, and then gave the parrot some 
sugar. By that time it was dark, and Kitty 
went out on her little balcony overlooking 
the world. She saw the lights come out and 
saw some of the glass roofs of the studios 
begin to shine. She dreamed for an hour or 
even more, for the air was warm and kindly. 

" I wonder which is — Tom's light," she 
said. Then she blushed, but she was sure 
he liked her tremendously. 

" Oh, life's very dull," she murmured, " but 
it's not so dull to-day as it was yesterday, 
I'm sure of that. I feel — I feel as if " 

She did not quite know how she felt, but 
it was as if the cage-door opened. She heard . 
the parrot talking to himself in the room 
behind her. The parrot was apparently 
engaged in pitying himself. 

" Poor, poor Polly," said the parrot, in a 
tone of heartrending pathos. His remark 
naturally arousal sympathy in Kitty. So she 
brought him out and put the cage down 
beside her chair without noticing that its 
door was not quite shut. Then she went 
back £gaia into the room and once more 
picked up Marcus Aurelius, If she could 


have foreseen, through her desire to live each 

day as if it were the day after to-morrow, 

what that book was to accomplish for her, 

she would have kissed it. As it was she 

looked at it acidly and opened it with some 

disdain for philosophy. She chanced upon 

^r"Is the cucumber bitter? 

set it away. Brambles are 

in the way? avoid them. Let 

this suffice." Whereupon she 

stamped and said, "Oh, 

nonsense, nonsense," and 

threw the poor Meditations 

on the floor, as she stood 

by the window. The little 

book fell on its edge close to 

Ehe window-sill and bounced 

into the balcony, whereon 

Polly, who had got out of the 

cage, gave a terrible squawk, 

and fluttering through the 

rails of the balcony went 

down upon the flat roofs 

fifteen feet below. And 

Kitty, tooy squeaked. 
u Oh, now Pve done it — 

I've done it ! " said she. 

« What— what shall I do ? n 
By this time it was quite 

dark save for the lamps and 

stars and the lights from 

some of the upper windows "poor 

in the distance* Neverthe- 
less she could see Polly on the roof beneath 


* ( Oh, Polly, Polly," said Kitty. She might 

as well have whistled to the winds. Polly 

acted as if liberty was as sweet as sugar, and 

said, cheerfully, " Scratch- a- poll." Then he 

started on a laborious walk eastwards along 

the roofs, 

u Good heavens," said Kitty. " I must go 
down, I must," The little gate which led 
from her balcony to the fire-escape was rusty 
on its hinges ; it groaned as sadly when she 
opened it as if it warned her of dangers and 
disasters. She got on the steep ladder- steps 
and went down gingerly. No one could see 
her, after all, so what did it matter ? To 
catch Polly would be easy, and in a few 
minutes she would be back in her room. 
But things are not always what they seem, 
and so far the philosophers, including Marcus 
Aurelius, are right Polly undoubtedly loved 
her, but for the moment loved exploration 
better. He was not in the least nervous, 
white she was. To be out on the roofs of 
strange houses just as the clock strikes ten 
odd situation for any young lady of 

twenty* And to have to chase an elusive 

parrot there made it no less odd* 

"Oh, Polly," said Kitty. 

And Polly waddled onwards* Kitty 

followed gingerly, and tried to get ahead of 

him* The bird said he was pretty in a 

hoarse, harsh whisper, and 

fluttered a yard or two 

farther Then he came to 

a two-foot wall dividing one 

roof from another, Kitty 

thought she had him. But the 

parrot thought not. He flew 

up with a prodigious flutter 

of unaccustomed wings, 

"Oh, bother you," said 
Kitty, angrily, But she was 
persevering and no coward. 
There was natural grit in 
her. She had endured Miss 
Bolt for years, and could 
stand anything in reason. 
She climbed over the little 
wall and saw Polly waddling 
faster. It was a new de- 
lightful game for the bird. 
He had dim remembrance 
of wide spaces somewhere 
in South America, It is quite 
possible that he believed he 
would get there presently. At 
jolly t n any rate, it was more amusing 

than being in a cage. 
" I'll catch you, if Pm here all night," said 
Kitty. Polly scaled another wall. So did 
Kitty. She never looked back* She forgot 
her father and her aunt and Marcus Aurdius, 
But she never forgo* Tom Carey. There 
was something inside her which said : " If 
Polly gets all the way to those studios you 
might look through a skylight and see him." 
It was ridiculous, but that is what her mind 
said. Of course, no one is responsible for 
what one's mind says, but Kitty refused to 
listen, which was only right and proper in a 
well-brought-up girl. 

" Pm really only thinking of Polly," she 
said. (t Oh, I wish he'd stop," 

It is extraordinary how fast parrots can 
go on a roof without really flying. No one 
who has not seen it can believe the pace 
they get up. Polty waddled, flapped, and 
floundered absurdly, but nevertheless put 
space behind him. Three times Kitty 
reached out her hand to grab him, regardless 
of the savage ibkte.h^wpuldTeward her with, 
but each "fflmS Wm Ho^tf her little hand on 
empty air, OnCcs she touched him and he 
actually flew the whole distance of a roof-top. 



"You — you demon!" said Kitty. The 
ardour of the chase got hold of her; she 
felt capable of following him over the house- 
tops of all London, including the dome of 
the Albert Hall. And then as she climbed 
another little wall she saw a skylight in the 
roof before her. It was the first of the 

" Perhaps you'll see Tom," said the irre- 
pressible part of her, the part of her 
mind which seemed someone else. One 
always does feel like someone else when 
in entirely new circumstances, and Kitty 
had never before Chased parrots over roofs 
between ten and eleven o'clock at night, 
so it was not surprising that she seemed 
a little unlike the girl her aunt knew. And 
that parrot was, perhaps, somewhat more 
than himself. When Kitty looked back on 
that hour afterwards he was less a bird than 
destiny. Now he scrambled on glass and 
stood on the ridge of a skylight which was 
not fla* but rose to an obtuse angle. Kitty 
shook her fist at him and looked at the glass. 

"I dare not go on it; suppose— oh, suppose 
I fell through ! " ' 

Nevertheless the studio beneath was not 
lighted. There was apparently no one in it. 
So Kitty hunted round, and finding some 
lumps of plaster began to throw them at 
Polly. He behaved exactly like the cele- 
brated fool-hen of the Western Prairies. 
Every time a lump of badly-aimed plaster 
came close to him he gave a little sideways 
jump and then preened himself at having 
escaped. The worse Kitty's aim the more 
angry she grew. She chose larger lumps of 
plaster, and at j[ast when she had hit the 
space all round Polly she got a bull's-eye, so 
to speak. A chunk took Polly where he 
lived, and over he went backwards, uttering 
dismal squawks. When he got up he flew 
upon the next studio. 

4< All right," said Kitty. " I'll catch you, 
if I stay at it all night." 

This was perhaps an exaggeration, but at 
the moment she felt equal to hunting him 
from Hounslow to Hoxton, over all the 
bricks and mortar intervening. She climbed 
another low wall, and as she did so Polly 
fluttered over the next one. The studio 
on the roof of which she now stood was 
lighted, so she went very gingerly. When 
she looked through the skylight she seemed 
dimly aware of a figure below her — the 
figure of a man. She wondered if it 
was Tom Carey ! Her heart beat fast, 
le caught her breath and looked. But 
le glass was dirty ; she could see 

nothing distinctly. Then she remembered 
the parrot and pursued the chase. She had 
another low wall to climb. Polly again 
selected glass, and flopped about on it as if 
he were trying to learn skating. The studio 
beneath was quite brilliantly lighted, but so 
far as Kitty could see there was no one 
in it. She went quietly this time, and said 
"Polly, Polly," as coaxingly as she could. 
For she was really very angry. She did not 
know all that gorgeous bird of fate was 
doing for her. 

" I wonder if I could go on the glass," she 
said, as she tried to creep round quietly so as 
to get the other side of Polly. This time 
she almost succeeded in passing him. But 
just as she was on the point of doing so he 
gave a terrific squawk and flew. Kitty made 
a jump, slipped on some slates, recovered 
herself with difficulty, and stepped upon 
glass before she knew it. For an instant the 
glass held, then there was a loud crack, and 
Kitty gave as sudden and horrid a yell as ' 
ever any parrot had perpetrated. The next ( 
moment she went clean through the skylight. 
It seemed to her that it took an absurd time 
for her to fall. Beneath her she perceived 
several gas-jets, a stove with a fire in it, and 
some canvases on easels. But the thing 
that saved her she did not see, as it was 
exactly beneath her. It was a very big 
ottoman, fortunately with strong springs and 
many cushions. She went down on it with 
a plump that tried the workmanship of the 
springs as they had never been tried before, 
and a shower of glass fell with her. The 
breath was fairly knocked out of her, and she 
sat for several seconds where she fell. 

11 Oh, now I have done it," said Kitty. 

There was no doubt of it — she had 
done it completely. She was in a studio, 
belonging no doubt to a stranger, and could 
not get back to save her life. For one wild 
instant she hoped it was the studio of 
Cobalt-Eyes, but she knew that that was not 
likely. He lived at Number seventeen, which 
implied that there were at least seventeen of 
them, and this meant that it was, at the 
smallest computation, seventeen to one against 
it being his place. She had learnt arithmetic, 
and she faced the facts as well as she could. 

"What shall I do?" she asked. Looking 
up she saw that she had fallen many feet. 
It was lucky things were no worse. She 
might have been severely injured. As a 
matter of fact she was not even scratched, 
though the ottoman was covered with frag- 
ments of glass, which also lay on the floor. 
But at this minute of breathless surprise the 



happier aspect of her 
surprising adventure did 
not occur to her. Sup- 
posing the door opened 
and the owner of the 
studio entered ! She felt 
that an explanation was 
beyond her, and already 
was almost in tears. But 
she got up, shook some 
glass out of her dressing- 
gown, recovered a shed 
slipper, put it on, and 
looked about her. The 
first thing she saw he* 
hind the ottoman was a 
human - looking figure 
covered with a sheet. 
She gasped, and then 
saw that it was a lay- 
figure in a chair. 

u Oh, dear, "said Kitty. 
And even as she spoke 
she heard voices outside 
the studio, She gasped 
again and listened with 
her mouth open. She 
heard a short conversa- 

"All right ; wait till 
I put my gas out/' said 

41 Oh, he's coming in," 
said Kitty. " But if he 
is going to put his gas 
out he won't stay," 

She did not catch the 
next words, hut someone 
called in the passage, 
and the man outside 
apparently went away 
from the doon 

"Til hide," said 
Kitty; "I'll hide/' 

Why she should hide 
or what she was to do 
afterwards did not 
trouble her. The only thing in her mind 
was to avoid being found there. She might 
be able to get out presently and make her 
way back home through the streets. She had 
a dim notion that it would seem very odd 
at home when she rang at the flat and found 
them in bed. Nevertheless, all that was in 
the dim and distant future ; she had to deal 
with the present. In fact, she lost her head 

M Where shall I hide ? " said Kitty, There 

m« nn «=fr#*^n in thft nlare : flip nftnman was 


very low, and she did not see another door 
which led into a bedroom. And there seemed 
little time. She heard a shout of laughter 
outside. It made her shiver. She saw the 
lay-figure again and an idea came to her 
"Oh, yes, " said Kitty. « 1*11 — I'll be it." 
Steps approached once more. She ran to 
the lay-figiue s pulU-J the sheet off it, picked 
up the| hJULAttl^. UMWI R8lTO*»der the ottoman, 
which took it with great difficulty, sat down 
on the chair, and threw the sheet over her 
hparL She hadn't been there five seconds 




before the door opened and a man's steps 
sounded in the room. He came in whistling, 
went straight to the gas, and turned it 
down. And just then another man called 
out Kitty didn't hear what he said, but 
apparently he called the owner of the studio 
" Bankes." 

" Yes, what is it ? " asked Bankes. , 

"That ass Billy has let his fire out," said 
the other man coming to the studio door. 

"Just like Billy," said Bankes. 

" Exactly like Billy," owned the other man. 
" Shall we go to my studio or stay here, or go 
to Carey's?" 

If the light had not been so low and if 
Bankes had looked at his lay - figure he 
would hare seen it shake. Kitty nearly 
fell off the chair at the mention of Carey's 
name. But she prayed devoutly that they 
would not stay where they were. She did 
so in vain. 

"Oh, let's stay," said Bankes. By this 
Kitty judged rightly that he meant them to 
come to him rather than that he should go 
elsewhere. "Tell 'em to come along here, 

Smith said he would, and when Bankes 
turned up the light again Kitty turned 
perfectly rigid with terror. The situation 
had seemed difficult before. Now it grew 

" I wish I'd never thought of this," said 
Kitty, " and I wish Polly had died before he 
flew away. It was all the fault of Marcus 
Aurelius Antoninus." 

She wondered what the stoical emperor 
would have done if he had fallen through a 
skylight, and just as she did so she heard 
Bankes made a sudden exclamation. 

" By Jove, my skylight is broken. Who's 
done it?" he roared, indignantly. Kitty 
almost jumped. As he spoke others entered 
the studio. Kitty saw them vaguely through 
a worn patch in the sheet. One seemed to 
be the man whom Bankes had called Smith, 
the other was no doubt Billy, while the third 
was Tom Carey, who had had such a bad fall 
in the Gardens that very morning. Kitty 
wondered innocently why he was not still 

" Who's done what ? " asked Billy. 

" That," said Bankes, pointing to the hole 
in his glass roof. Kitty saw them stare, and 
knew they would have stared indeed if they 
had seen her make it. 

" How did it happen ? " asked Tom Carey. 
His voice made Kitty blush under her 
►enitential sheet. 

" Hnw thf» Hpiipp should T know ? " asked 

Bankes, crossly. " It's like my luck. I 
broke a glass this morning." 

"That's bad luck," said Smith, eagerly. 
" It's a bad omen to break glass." 

" Rot," said Carey ; " perhaps it was a cat 
that did it." 

And then Kitty heard a voice she knew 
very well indeed. It made a remark she 
had heard thousands of times. 

"Pretty Polly," said the errant and evil 
parrot, standing at the very edge of the hole 
through which his mistress had gone. Then 
he bowed rapidly several times and added 
mournfully, " Scratch-a-PolIy ! " 

" By Jove, it's a parrot," said the men in a 
chorus. And Smith, who looked very gloomy, 
said that a parrot was also an omen. 

" I'm a Polly, pretty Polly, scratch -a- 
Polly, scratch-a-Kitty," said Polly as he bent 
down to have a look at the studio. He 
began to feel lonesome. The game had 
been very pleasant so long as Kitty played in 
it. Now he was much puzzled, and, being 
intelligent and inquisitive, did his best to 
ask the men down below where she was. 

"Well, a parrot couldn't have done it," 
said Simpson. 

"Who said it could?" asked Bankes, 

"It's very mysterious," said Smith; "I 
think it must be an omen." 

" Can't we catch the parrot ? " suggested 
Carey. " No doubt there is an ancient old maid 
somewhere wringing her hands over him." 

A young maid under a sheet would have 
given a great deal to wring her hands just 
then, for Kitty was wildly anxious to move. 
Sitting still was worse than purgatory. 

" Come, pretty Polly," said Carey. 

But Polly gave a scream, asked them to 
scratch him, made several rapid ducks as if 
thanking his audience for applause, and went 
away into the night. 

" I suppose you haven't a ladder handy ? " 
asked Carey. 

" After all this I wouldn't climb a ladder 
for five pounds," said Smith. " I should fall 
off and break my leg. This is going to be an 
unlucky night Besides, there isn't a ladder." 

" Well, let's play cards," said Simpson. 
Smith immediately discovered that the pack 
was incomplete, the nine of diamonds being 

" They call it the curse of Scotland," said 
Smith, who seemed to know everything dis- 
agreeable and mysterious and ominous that 
was to be known. 

" Confound it, don't let's play at all. Let's 
talk." said Bankes. 



"Yes, let's," said Smith, who was in the 
mood to tell sad stories of the death of kings, 

" Have you seen that young lady again, 
Tom ? " asked Bankes. 

Simpson, who was rather cross at not being 
ible to play bridge, cheered up at this and 
chuckled. " Don't you know what happened 
to-day? 15 he asked. 

" So he put the leg of hfs easel between 
his own legs and went a horrid cropper," 

Kitty almost jumped at this. In fact she 
did move a little, and as a result found that 
she could see them all much better, as her 
eye came opposite a little hole in the sheet, 
Billy Simpson was standing up in front of the 
open stove, Smith was on the ottoman with 


" Anything mysterious ? " cried Smith, 

I( Tell J em, Torn," said Simpson. 

But Carey wouldn't tell them anything, 

"Then I will," said Simpson. "I've seen 
her myself ! " 

"Is she as lovely as Carey makes out?" 
asked Bankes, cynically* 

" Every bit,' 1 said Simpson. 

"Oh, dear," said Kitty, to herself. 

"There's something very mysterious in 
beauty," said Smith, shaking his head, 

" Oh T shut up, Smith " said Bankes, 

Then Polly came to the hole again and 
said he was pretty. This made Smith start, 

"Oh, that bird makes me shiver," said 
Smith, " But tell us all about it, Simpson." 

"Tom saw her in the Gardens to-day. She 
had an awful old lady with her, a bit of 
antiquity, a dug-up relic of the early Victorian 
era, an aunt with curls, I should say/* 

u She was kind to me when I was in pain * 
chuckled Carey. 

"Were you in pain — much pain?" asked 

" I'm coming to that," said Simpson, 
u Tom saw them in the Gardens and wanted 
to speak. He had to speak or die, you see," 

* Or die." reneated Smith. " Go on." 

his back to her, Carey and Bankes were at 
the tabic. While Simpson talked Carey built 
a house of cards, 

" I wonder what they'll say about me," 
said Kitty, tremulously, 

" Came a horrid cropper," went on 
Simpson, "and he lay where he fell, knowing 
they'd have to speak to him if they'd any 
decency in them, So the prehistoric maiden 
lady asked him if he was hurt. So did the 
angel from heaven that Tom's dotty about. 
Ever since, he's been raving about the music 
of her voice, her glorious complexion, her 
perfect figure, and her divine eyes. She 
picked up his scattered paints, restored them 
to him, and took away his heart in exchange. 
And all the time the hypocrite rubbed his 
delicate ankle and roared with pain." 

" Liar I " remarked Carey, u But I really 
did hurt myself" 

"And he asked them to come and tell 
me," said Simpson; "that's how I saw 'em. 
She's really sweet. Ask us all to the wedding, 

" Oh, drop it, Bil!y," said Carey. " I wish 


Kitty loved the way he spoke. She was 
prepared to like anything he said or did. 
She was verv elad he thought her beautiful,.. 



It confirmed her own opinion. But she 
wished she could have heard it all from 
where the parrot was. Polly again interrupted 
the conversation by asking them to scratch 
him. Unless he was scratched he seemed to 
think he would die. That is what the tone 
of his voice gave them to understand. It 
made Smith gloomier than ever. 

" I wish you wouldn't build card houses, 
Tom," said Smith. 

" Why not ? " asked Carey. 

" They're unlucky, especially if they fall 
down when you've got them at an uneven 
number of storeys," said the prophetic Smith. 

" I'd like to see a pretty girl again before 
I die," said Bankes. " I don't believe there 
are any. I went out yesterday and never 
saw one." 

" It's your liver," suggested Simpson. 
" When I'm ill I never see a decent-looking 
woman ; but when I'm well I see a hundred. 
I love 'em all, every one of 'em." 

" They're all deceitful too," said Bankes. 

11 Who chucked you last?" asked Simpson. 

" Pretty Polly," said the mournful parrot 
on the roof. 

" Confound that bird," said Bankes. But 
the others roared, for every one knew that 
Polly Girdlestone, the most charming model 
who came to that nest of studios, had 
politely but firmly refused to sit to Bankes 
any more. 

Kitty was learning a good deal For one 
thing, she learnt to be sorry for models who 
had to sit still when every muscle in their 
bodies demanded rest or change. She had 
the wildest desire to move. She felt that to 
scream out would be the most wonderful 
satisfaction. She also learnt something about 
these men. Bankes was a nervous, cross 
man. Simpson was a jovial one. Smith was 
a weijd, talkative person, full of omens. But 
Carey loved her, and they all seemed to like 
him very much. 

"And to think that I might never have 
known it. I'm glad I fell through, whatever 
happens," thought Kitty. 

"Well, we'll drink to the fair unknown, 
anyhow," said Simpson. 

So they drank to Kitty, who wished to 
Heaven they would go to bed. Was she 
never to get a chance of escape ? 

But the talk went on, and Smith now 
directed its channel, because Carey got a 
house up to the ninth storey and let it 
collapse before he put a tenth on it. 

" That's awfully unlucky," said Smith. " I 
an't help thinking something very unlucky will 
lappen to you, Carey, and to you, Bankes/' 

" Why to me ? " asked Bankes, hastily. 

" On account of the mirror you broke and 
the roof falling in, and that parrot. A bird 
is often as bad as a banshee. I believe in 
omens. Broken glass is also an omen," said 
Smith, unctuously. 

" Dry up with your omens," said Bankes, 

" Tell us about omens and banshee 
things," said Simpson, who was pleased to 
rag Bankes. u Haunted houses, for instance." 

" Yes," said Smith, " I can tell lots about 

He had, though he did not know it, a fine, 
natural talent for horrid narrative. He made 
Bankes blanch visibly and look behind him. 

" Do you know what Lanyon told me last 
night ? " asked Smith, when Bankes had at 
last edged his chair back to the wall. 

44 No. What ? Was it horrid ? Tell us," 
said Simpson. 

" He had a stance in his studio at Chelsea. 
They turned the lights down, of course," said 
Smith, with awful, mysterious gusto, "and 
then, in the corner of the studio behind a 
screen, they heard a strange creaking and 
heavy steps." 

" Yes ; go on," said Simpson, eagerly. 

" And then, and then," said Smith, " there 
came from behind the screen — what do you 

" Tell us," said Bankes, trembling. 

" Do," said Simpson. , 

" It was his lay-figure. It walked, stamping 
and with jerks, right across the studio," said 
Smith, with much fervour. 

"I — I don't believe it," said Bankes, 

" Lanyon swears to it," said Smith. " I 
believe him. He wouldn't lie ; we all know 

"He thought he saw it," said Carey, 
perhaps a trifle uneasily. 

Only Simpson laughed. 

" I wouldn't laugh," said Smith, reproach- 
fully. " I can tell you other things." 

He went on to tell them other things. In 
about five minutes Bankes was in a cold 
perspiration. So was Kitty, who had never 
heard anything of the kind before. Then 
the parrot, who had gone for a lonesone little 
walk in the moonlight, came back and uttered 
a dirge-like croak which made Bankes jump. 

" I should like to see some of these things 
that Smith talks of," said Simpson. " I like to 
shiver at midnight 1 wish the old-fashioned 
ghost story hadnt gone out of fashion." 

"I hate 'em," said Bankes. "Don't go 
yet, chaps. Have another drink." 



They had another, and Smith resumed. 
He told Bankes something very encouraging 
about a spirit It made Kitty's skin creep. 

"I shall positively scream in a minute/ 7 
said Kitty. " Oh, what shall I do ? " 

Then Carey rose and said he was going to 
turn in. So did Simpson. So did Smith, 
who resisted the entreaties of the unhappy 
Bankes to stay and tell him some more. 
Bankes wished for company at any price, 
even at the price of Smith's stories. He 
wanted to sit up till dawn. But Smith took 
himself away, and left Bankes with his broken 
glass and the anxious parrot, which was as 
gloomy now as Poe's raven. 

11 Confound Smith, especially that story of 
his about the lay-figure," said Bankes. He 
glanced uneasily at his own, or where he 
thought it was, and then went to his bed- 
room, after turning the gas-lights down to 
pin-points. But they still gave some light, 
and the fire gave more, while the moon, 
though at the moment under a cloud, was 
breaking through it 

14 Oh, now, now," said Kitty. 
She felt absolutely crazy with stiffness and 
fatigue, to say nothing about her anxiety as 
to her ridiculous position. She had to escape 
and go home and ring them up. She saw 
her aunt and her father looking at her and 
at each other while she explained what had 

44 Oh, it's all impossible," said Kitty. But 
there she was. 

44 111 escape now," said Kitty. And 
suddenly she almost laughed. It was not 
happy laughter which was in her, but some- 
thing very near hysteria. 

44 I'm— I'm the lay-figure," she said. And 
suddenly, without quite knowing what she 
should do or how she should do it, she rose 
from her chair, and as she rose she stepped 
on the sheet and her head went through a 
slit in it. Without waiting to get rid of it 
she hurried towards the door. Just as she 
got to the middle of the room the moon 
shone brightly through the skylight and 
at that fatal instant Bankes opened his 
bedroom-door again and stepped into the 
studio. He saw Kitty in her white sheet, 
started back, uttered a fearful and resounding 
yell, and tumbled on the floor. And Kitty 
ran to the door. 

44 He thinks I'm the figure— the figure ! " 
she cried. The next moment she was in a 
dimly-lighted corridor, and she ran down the 
passage, much hampered by the white sheet, 
which she was wearing like a poncho. 

"Which — which is the way out?" said 

Kitty, as she ran. And she heard Bankes roar 
for assistance. Fear got hold of her; she 
lost her head completely, and then found that 
she was at the end of the passage with no 
way out. The light there was very dim. 
She grabbed at the handle of the nearest 
door just as she heard voices at the end of 
the passage, turned it, ran in, slammed it, 
and finding a key inside locked herself in. 
Steps came down the passage, doors opened, 
doors slammed, there was excited talk out- 
side. She heard Smith's voice and Bankes. 

" It — It went in there," said Bankes, with 
an accent of horror. A hand rattled the 

" It's locked," said Smith, in an awe- 
stricken voice. 

Kitty found herself in an empty studio, 
lighted only by the moon. Every moment 
she expected the door to be burst in. She 
was like a mouse in a trap, with several cats 
outside. She ran round the studio, wildly 
seeking for a way out. 

11 1 hear something inside ! " cried Smith, 
on the outside. This was received with 
exclamations. And Kitty, almost in collapse, 
leant against the wall. But it wasn't the 
wall; it was a door. It gave way, being 
only half-latchedi and she fell suddenly into 
a lighted studio. She rose to her feet, wildly 
wondering where she was. And then she 
guessed. On an easel facing her was a 
sketch from memory of herself! 

4< It's his studio," said Kitty ; " it's his !" 

Yes, it was Tom Carey's studio. He and 
Simpson sometimes used the empty one to 
box in. 

Then she heard Tom Carey's voice outside. 

44 You're all cracked," said Tom, "or 
drunk. Oh, go to bed ! " 

He came into his studio, slammed the 
door, locked it, turned, and saw Kitty 
standing there. He started back, upset a 
small table, and rubbed his eyes. 

" Good heavens," said Tom Carey, " am I 
— am I — mad too ? " 

Kitty subsided on a sofa and held out her 
hands in a wild appeal. 

" No," she said, " I hope not. Don't be." 

" You hope not ? I'm not to be ? " 

" Certainly not," said Kitty ; " I beg you 

« You— you?" 

" Oh, please, yes. It's dreadful ! " 

Kitf]qra^p[i^^i^|^r feet again as he 

She spoke rapidly, feeling as if she were in , 
a strange, rapid dream, in which everything ^ 



had to be taken prestissimo and molto 

"I fell through his skylight/' said Kitty. 
" I was after my parrot on the roof and I fell 
through on to hfs sofa, and I was so alarmed 
I hid myself. I put his lay- figure under the 
ottoman and sat down with a sheet over me, 
I was there while you were talking. When 
you went I got up and tried to escape. He 

"Oh, yes ; I believe so. Fm sure of iL 
He screamed/* said Kitty. 

Tom looked at her, took her hand, dropped 
it, glanced round, saw his own lay -figure, 
which was the twin sister of Ran kes J s— then 
he smiled curiously, 

" I'll doit," he said. 

" Do what ?" asked Kitty, in alarm. 

But Tom seized the lay -figure* 



saw me and screamed. Oh, save me ; don't 
let them know — don't, don't ! " 

"Good Lord/* said Tom* "Oh, my 
darling 1 I beg your pardon, but it's so 
confusing " 

"Isn't it?" said Kitty; "oh, most con- 
fusing." She grasped his coat, his arm, his 
hand, "They're out there still Don't let 
them in — don't," 

"Never— never," said Tom. "Did he 

think vnn w**rt* the lav-figure ? " 

" Give me that sheet," said Tom. 

She gave it him obediently, being ready to 
do anything in the world at his least word* 
He opened the door through which she had 
entered, carried in the lay- figure while she 
watched him, and put it on the floor in a 
kneeling attitude with one arm up. Then 

he parti^|^|^v^S|W th the sheet 
It looked terrible, pathetic, appealing. It 

prayed to the moon, which stared in 

through the skylight. 



"Oh!" said Kitty. But Tom Carey 
returned, locked the door quietly, and 
looked at her. She said " Oh ! " again, 
and then "What?" but Carey only smiled 

"Go behind that screen," he said, and 
Kitty did as she was told. There was again 
excited talk outside, and even as Tom went 
towards his door there was a knock. He 
opened, and found Simpson there, with Smith 
and Bankes. 

" Well, what is it ? " asked Tom Carey. 

"These fools " began Simpson, con- 

" I tell you we saw it," urged Bankes. " It 
passed me in my studio, all white, with its 
arms up ! I — I fainted. Smith saw it too." 

"I did," panted Smith. "Oh, it was 
awful ! It ran along the passage, and went 
in here ! " 

" The door's locked," said Carey. " What 
rot ! " 

" You mad idiots," cried Simpson. 

" I tell you we saw it," pleaded Smith and 
Bankes, " and — and it isn't in the studio ; we 
looked again. It's like what happened in 
Lanyon's studio— just like it." 

" You and Lanyon are both mad," said 
Carey. " How could it go through a locked 

" It — de-materialized itself," said Smith, 
who was full of the jargon. "That's easy — 
quite easy ! " 

" Gammon," said Simpson. " Let's go in, 
Carey. There's^ the door in through your 

" I locked it after we boxed a week 
ago, and I've lost the key," said Carey, 

" Then let's burst this door in," said 

" Oh, no," cried Bankes, shrinking back. 

" Oh, yes," said Smith. 

** Let's," said Carey. 

" Right," said Simpson. 

And with one tremendous thrust of Simp- 
son's foot against the lock the door flew 
open with a crash. There, in the middle of the 
studio, was the lay-figure, draped in its white 
sheet, kneeling and praying to the moon ! 

" Oh, oh ! " said Bankes. He fell against 
the wall and shook to his very teeth. 

" Great Scot ! " said Simpson. 

" Didn't I say so?" said Smith. 

■• Jerusalem ! " said Carey. 

"Is it your lay-figure, Bankes?" asked 
Simpson. " Go and see." 

" I wouldn't touch it for worlds," said 

Bankes. " But it is, of course." 
v*»i- xL— a. 

" Didn't I see it go in ? " asked Smith, with 
his eyes bolting out of his head. 

Carey went to the figure and took off the 
draping sheet. 

" This is Bankes's old sheet," he said. " I'm 
pretty sure of it." 

" Yes, it is ; there's a hole in it," cried 
Bankes. " Isn't it terrible ? " 

"Most interesting," said Smith. "This 
— this is an experience. I'll write about 

" Pick the old girl up and take her back, 
Bankes," said Carey. But Bankes declined 
to do anything of the sort. He shivered 
visibly, and was as white as the sheet in the 
moonlight. Smith's teeth chattered, but he 
had an unholy joy in the affair. He began 
to think what to write to some spiritualistic 

"Let's leave it here then," said Carey. 
" But if we do, I daresay it will come to you 
in the night, Bankes." 

" r say, Simpson, may I come and sleep in 
your studio to-night?" asked Bankes. 

iU If you like," said Simpson, who so far 
had said nothing, because he was without 
anything to say. The whole affair was utterly 
inexplicable, and he didn't pretend to under- 
stand it. It made him feel rather odd. But 
he thought Carey stood it very well. 

" Let's hook it, then," said Carey ; " I want 
to go to bed." 

They went, casting fearful backward glances 
as they did so. 

" What's it all mean ? " asked Simpson. 

"Broken glass and croaking birds are 
omens, as I said," cried Smith. " It's some 
spirit vivified it." 

" I don't believe it," said Simpson. 

" Explain it, then," urged Smith. 

" Rot ! " said Simpson, angry because he 
couldn't. Bankes took his arm and went 
away with him, and Smith followed. 

They all went into Smith's studio, which 
was nearer than Bankes's. When Carey saw 
them go in he ran lightly into Bankes's studio, 
pulled the lay -figure from under the ottoman, 
and put it on Bankes's bed. Then Tom went 
back to his own studio and locked the door. 

" Hush ; don't speak, Kitty," said Carey. 
He unlocked the door of the other studio, 
took up the lay-figure, and carried it into his 
own place, but left the sheet on the floor. 
Then he locked the empty studio again. In 
less than a minute he heard a terrible yell 

w.^^A"ffl™Biff a loud knock at 

" It's— it's back, it's back ! " cried Smith, 



Carey opened his door. 

11 What's back ? " he asked. 

11 The lay-figure ; it's on Bankes's bed. Oh, 
this is very, very strange." 

11 Nonsense," cried Carey ; " it's in there. 
You know it is." 

Bankes and Simpson came and confirmed 
Smith's statement. 

" It's not in there," said Smith. " It's on 
the bed. We saw it." 

"Yes, we did," said Bankes, shaking like 
a leaf. 

Carey went to the door and pushed it 

" By Jove, it's gone," he said. " But there's 
the sheet." 

He picked up the sheet and gave it to 

" Now do you believe in these things ? " 
asked Smith, as he accepted the magic sheet 
with great reluctance. 

" No, I don't," said Carey. 

"Then I think you are little better than 
an atheist," replied Smith, in great dudgeon. 

" I want to go to bed. I'll discuss it 
to-morrow," said Carey. " If anyone comes 
to my door again, 1*11 not open it — so 

And going in he slammed his door and 
locked it. Smith went back with the sheet. 
Neither he nor Bankes thought of sleep till 
dawn, though they had nothing to do. Carey 
did not think of sleep either, for he had a 
great deal to do. 

"It's wonderful — wonderful," he said. Then 
he whispered, " Kitty ! " 

"Ye-es," said Kitty, from behind the 

" Please come out," said Tom Carey. And 
Kitty came out. They looked at each other 
in silence, and then they both smiled. The 
smile became a laugh, for the whole situation 
was so strange and remarkable. Even a 
parrot would have laughed at it. 

" 1 say," said Tom, " this is very funny 1 " 

" I want to go home," said Kitty. Then 
she looked at the picture on the easel. Tom 
saw her look at it and he actually coloured. 

" Is — that me?" she asked. 

" I meant it for you," said Tom ; " but 
it's a gross outrage. I'll paint it out 

" Don't," said Kitty ; " please don't ! " 

" If I could really paint you " 

" Yes ? " said Kitty. 

" I say, did you hear everything we said 
while you were hiding ? " asked Tom. 

" Everything," said Kitty, with downcast 

" I hope you weren't very angry," said 
Tom, also looking down. 

" Not very," said Kitty, locking her pretty 
fingers together. 

" You see, I had to speak to you, and 
I didn't know how to arrange it. The 
notion of upsetting myself came just like 
_like " 

" Like an inspiration," suggested Kitty. 

" Exactly," said Tom. "So I did it. Do 
you mind, now ? " 

" Not exactly," said Kitty ; " oh, no ! " 

" You see " began Tom. 

" Yes." 

"You see, I— but was the other lady your 
aunt?" asked Tom. 

" My great-aunt," said Kitty. " She's very 
severe ; my father's severe, too." 

" Is he ? She looked it," said Tom. " Oh, 
please sit down." 

" I want to go home," said Kitty. " I — I 
ought to." 

" Will they miss you ? " asked Tom. 

"Not till the morning," said Kitty; "but 
you see " 

" Yes, I see," said Tom. " Do you want 
to go back by the roofs ? " 

"Yes, please," said Kitty. "There's my 
parrot there, you know." 

"We shall have to get through my sky- 
light," said Tom. " I think I can climb up. 
But " 

"Yes?" said Kitty. 

" I'd like to know your name, please." 

" It's Kitty Drew," said Kitty, blushing. 

" I knew it was Kitty," said Tom. " Do 
sit down a minute." 

So Kitty sat down, and Tom sat near her. 
They fell into a sudden silence. Then Kitty 
began to laugh. 

"It's about the lay-figure," she explained. 

" Poor Bankes ! " said Tom Carey. " Are 
you sorry it happened ? " 

"Noo," said Kilty. "It's all because of 
the parrot and Marcus Aurelius ! " 

" Marcus Aurelius ? " asked Tom. " Who's 

" He was a Roman emperor," replied 
Kitty, " and he wrote meditations in Greek. 
I don't know why he wrote in Greek, do 

" Not in the least," said Tom. " What had 
he to do with it ? " 

Kitty explained briefly what Marcus 
Aurelius had to do with it, and what part 
the parrot played in the drama. 

" I — I love that parrot/' said Tom, quietly. 

"So — do I," said Kitty; "very much. 
I always did." 



" But now," suggested Tom. " Don't you 
love him more now ? " 

"Ye-es," said Kitty after a long pause. 
Then she added, hurriedly, "Oh, but I must 
go home — I must ! " 

"Very well," said Tom, "we will. Til 
take you. And we'll catch that parrot" 

He pushed a sitter's throne under the 
skylight, where it was at its lowest, and put 
two boxes on top of the throne. The 
erection looked rather rickety, but it was 
high enough for Tom Carey, who was a very 
good athlete, to reach a beam, and from that 
the skylight. When he found he could do 
so, he got down again, knotted two sheets 
together and pulled the knots tight. 

" I'll put this round your waist," said Tom, 
" and when I'm up there on the roof I can 
pull you after me. May I put it round 
you ? " 

"Yes," said Kitty, "please." 

She trembled as he did, and perhaps he 
trembled too ; once or twice he stopped, and 
she saw a strange look in his eyes and a 
curious little loosening of his mouth. But 
he set his teeth together again and said and 
did nothing. Somehow Kitty thought he 
wanted to kiss her. Perhaps he did. 

When the sheet was securely fastened 
about her waist Tom Carey took the end of 
the other sheet and climbed up to the beam, 
and, getting on it, reached the skylight, which 
he opened. Then he crawled through it and 
got upon the roof. 

" Come," said Tom. And after a breath- 
less minute Kitty found herself on the roof 
by his side. 

"Isn't it strange?" said Kitty. For it 
was a very great adventure, and she knew 
that a million girls in London would have 
given up games and theatres, which do not 
represent life, to be there in her place. 

" It's wonderful," said Tom. For now it 
was moonlight, and the full moon was high 
and the world very strange. But it was also 
very sweet, because Tom Carey knew he 
loved her, and she knew that she was near to 
loving him very much indeed. And far 
across the roofs she could see the light still 
burning in the room in which she had been 
so very lonely, save for the parrot and Marcus 

"I'll read him right through— every word," 
she said. 

" Who?" asked Tom. 

*' Marcus Aurelius," said Kitty. 

14 I'll buy a copy to-morrow," said Tom. 

44 You can get one for a shilling," said 

" It's worth thousands," said Tom. 

And they went towards Kitty's home. 

"We mustn't forget the parrot," he said, 

" Not for worlds ; I love him," said Kitty. 

Tom stopped. 

" More than you did ? " 

" Much more,"' said Kitty. 

" More — than anyone ? " asked Tom. 

" No-o," said Kitty. 

And just then the parrot, who was seated 
on a chimney-stack, said " Pretty Polly," in a 
joyful voice. He heard Kitty, and was very 
glad of it. Not being a cat, though given to 
scratching and biting, he did not love being 
on a roof when he came to think of it. 

"Oh, there he is, the little wretch," said 
Kitty. She did not love him so much at 
that moment. For he had perhaps inter- 
rupted something that Cobalt-Eyes was about 
to say. 

" I'll catch him," said Tom. 

" He'll bite," said Kitty. 

He did, and bit savagely, and Tom did not 
love him, either, for one moment. Then he 
transferred his savage capture to Kitty, and 
Polly squawked upon her shoulder and defied 
him after the manner of the parrot tribe. 

"Did he hurt you?" asked Kitty, almost 

" Very much," said Tom, with great 

" I'm so sorry " said Kitty, softly. 

" I shall adore parrots after this," said Tom, 
with exultation. I'll paint him— some day. 
And I shall love the moon better all my life. 
And I wish I'd known how delightful this 
roof was. I'll often come here again." 

" Oh, will you ? " asked Kitty. 

And then they came to the fire-escape by 
which Kitty had escaped from flat routine 
and tumbled into Paradise. 

"And here I must say good-bye," said 
Tom, mournfully. 

" Oh, not that," said Kitty. 

The parrot flew from her shoulder and 
perched on the ladder. 

" Look here, you know " said Tom, in 


"Yes," said Kitty. * 

"I — I love you," said Tom. "I can't 
help it." 

" Can't you ? " asked Kitty, trembling. 

" I did when I first saw you — you know it," 
said her lover ; for he was her lover, and she 
was glad. 

11 HRffl said KfVKSff* dream. " And it's 
so strange." 

He took her hand. She did not withdraw it 



il Will you marry me, Kitty ? >r he asked. 
In the moonlight he saw tears in her eyes. 
He saw that her lips trembled. A tear ran 
down her cheek and, staying upon her lips, 
looked like a dewdrop on roses, 
li You will, I know, " said Tom. 

for sometimes the heart knows more than 
wisdom, though the wisdom be greater than 
that of Marcus Aurelius. 

u Til come and see your father to-morrow," 
said Tom, as he took her to his heart and 
kissed her* 


She was very glad he knew, for she could 
not speak. But the parrot did. He praised 
himself continually, saying " Pretty Polly " 
over and over again. 

"Yes," said Kitty at last. It was not her 
own voice, but the voice of her inward heart 
which knew best and most of her, and 
believed it knew him. As perhaps it did, 

" And if he will not listen " said Tom. 

Then he stopped and smiled, looking at the 
little ladder which led up to her room. 

"If he will not listen there is always the 
fire-escape," he said, triumphantly* 

"Yes^said Kitty; "yes." 

And flffigtiwrf r flra behind a cloud while 

he kiiwfrw* mtium 

Some Interesting Facts atout Divorce. 

ARRIAGE is a solemn affair; 
even more solemn is divorce. 
Yet so perverse is human 
nature that it can occasion- 
ally even contemplate the light 
side of divorce— the tragedy 
of two mortals who once have 
loved and now are parted. We are told that 
as an institution it in becoming so familiar in 
America that it is fast losing its terrors; and 
the story is told of a Kentucky colonel who, 
after five divorces, met and remarried the 
lady of his first choice. 

Very little understood is the physiology 
of divorce and its comparative prevalence 
m various countries. How many know, for 
instance, which is the greatest divorcing 
people ? Then, who would suppose that 
divorce is regulated by such a material 
condition as "hard times"? Yet so it is. 
In a period of commercial depression there 
are far fewer divorces than at other periods. 

The distinction of having the highest 
national divorce rate belongs to Japan, 
America only following at a considerable 
distance, Switzerland, which has the highest 
rate of any European country, reported last 
year 32 divorces per 100,000 inhabitants, 
being only about three- sevenths of the 
number occurring in the United States, The 
eittnt to which the rate for America exceeds 

that for other Christian countries is shown in 
the following table : — 





Belgium .*..«♦,., 




German Empire 
Prussia .♦.,..... 

Saxon y 


England & Wales 





Japan .^ ........ 

Netherlands .,. 
New Zealand 



Servia ...,+..,>,.. 


Switzerland ... 
United States 






38 t %I,945 



















Divorce* : 
Annual Arena*. 

v,,„v„ F*r 1*1.000 
Kuml»r. population 










































(0 Annual . 
during ill 

divorce granted 

;■■-■, i, 1. Only 

A most significant tendency is the marked 
persistency of the increase in the divorce 


Japan 215* 
The height! of tlieie figure ihow the proportion of divorce* per 
different count riei, from the enormouf 215 of Japan dawn to the 2 of Great 
•malt to be Kpreientedexcept by a dot. 

Britain — 1 


the movement 
of divorce, as 
shown by the 
two sets of rates, 
is substantially 
the same. Based 
upon married 
population, the 
divorce rate in 
1900 was two 
and one - half 
times as great 
as it was in 
1870, and the 
same increase is 
shown by the 
rates as based 
upon total 

This divorce 
rate, based on 
married popula- 
tion, measures 
the rapidity with 
which marri- 


rate* The movement, although occasionally 
checked or retarded by commercial crises, 
periods of business depression, or other 
causes, has been almost without exception 
upward. In only four years, 1870, 1884, 
1894, and 1902, was the divorce rate for this 
country as a whole lower than it was in the 
preceding year, while the rate was greater 
than in the preceding year in twenty-nine 
cases. The upward movement, moreover, 
although varying in intensity in different 
sections, has been general, not merely in 
America, but in Europe. 

The rates based upon married population 
are, of course, much larger than those based 
upon total population, In general, however. 

Switzerland 32. 

ages are being dissolved 
by divorce. In 1900 the 
rate was 200 divorces j)er 
1 00, 000 ma fried person s , 
or 2 divorces per 1,000 
married persons. Now 
1,000 married persons represent 
approximately 500 married 
couples ; if it were not for 
absentee husbands and wives 
they would represent exactly 
that number. The divorce rate, 
based on the number of married 
coupleSJM.Mj" 1 tli##^£|zr'per 500, or 4 
per r,ooo. In other words, at the 
period represented by the figures for 


France 2? 


Norway h. 


the year igoo, divorce was 
dissolving each year 4 
marriages out of every 
i t ooo in existence. 

The ratio for 1900 repre- 
sents, of course, a marked 
increase over that prevail- 
ing in the earlier decades. 
In the period represented 
by the figures for 1890 
divorce was dissolving each 
year 3 marriages out of 
every r,ooo in existence. 


For 1880 the corre- 
sponding figure was 
2 out of every 
1 ,000, and for 1870 
i*6 out of every 


During the 
twenty years from 
1887 to 1906 the 
number of marri- 
ages celebrated in 
the United States 
was 12,832,044, 
while the number 



The comparative height! show that about one-third of divorced people marry again. 

of divorces of marriages known to have been cele- 
brated was 820,264, According to these figures, for 
the 20-year period one marriage was dissolved by 
divorce to every 15*6 native marriages celebrated. 

The number of marriages celebrated in the United 
States in 1887 was 618,264. One marriage out of 
every 16 of those celebrated in 1887 has been or 
will be ultimately dissolved by divorce. 

It is not surprising to learn that 
there are more than twice as many 
women suing for divorce as men, 
although wc know that divorce was 
once a man's privilege solely* 

The official figures indicate that 
about one-third of divorced persons 
marry again* This should not be 
interpreted as proving that about one- 
third of the divorced persons sought 
the divorce so that they might con~ 
tract a new union. The figures for 
divorced persons marrying include not 
only those who marry immediately 
after securing the decree, but also 
those who marry several years after- 
wards That a certain proportion of 
divorced persons should remarry is as 
natural and as inevitable as that a 
certain proportion of the widowed 
shopW JjOTflf^ It is perhaps more 

m "~" 


hy «rtp*rina the hetghti of !W fiauiw. tw«x •• m» 7 what pro f ess j on should YOU choose 

wnmen sue to f divorce as men. Xr * 

, ttaj|t^n r because the divorced 
*&m 'W [ 'younger than the 



in order to be happily married ? Not that of 
actor, for truth compels the statement that 
the statistics of every country clearly demon- 
strate that the stage is of all callings most 
favourable to divorce. Actors and pro- 

matrimony to the navigation of troubled 
waters. Nearly twenty- five per cent, of all 
divorces take place before the parties have 
been married a twelvemonth ; while thirty- 
eight per cent, have been married two years* 
But the crucial time is when couples have 
been married four years, for there are more 
chances of separation then than at any 
other period. From that point onward these 
chances fluctuate, until at ten years married 
the odds arc the same as at two years. After 
ten years they diminish annually, until a 
point of comparative safety is reached ; 
although there are instances of divorce after 
fofty and even fifty years of married life. 

In the writings of foreign statisticians 
attention has frequently been called to the 
fact that suicide is apparently more prevalent 
among the divorced than among the single 
or married. Figures would seem to prove 

conclusively that 
in certain coun- 
tries (Baden, Bel- 
gium, Denmark, 
Prussia, Saxony, 
Switzerland, and 
Wurte m burg) sui- 
cide is more pre- 
valent among the 
divorced than any 
other class. 


Adors. (73) Commercial Travel Icri U3). t" umtri (3X 

What profrtfioni provide motl divorce i ? Acton provide irvenly-tlue* to the cJemy'i one! 

Clergy (IX 

fessional showmen are at the head of the list 
of divorcing couples- After these come 
musicians and teachers of music, and then — 
but longo inkrvalb — commercial travellers. 
One would expect to see sailors close at 
hand, but they are far down the list, A 
divorced sailor is a great rarity, almost as 
great a rarity as a divorced butcher* And 
fewer than three farmers are divorced for 
every seventy - three actors, a most 
striking instance of the influence of rural 
occupation upon the emotions. And clergy- 
men are, as they should be f at the very 
bottom of the list. 

And now we come to the critical period 

in the matrimonial career, when the gathering 

clouds may suddenly burst in fatal thunder, 

Sir Arthur Pinero has lately called, this 

xitical period u Mid ■ Channel," likening 

Suicides pkr ioo.ogo Population. 

Single. Married. DivorcetL 

Denmark 448 ,.. 60 ... 498*9 

America, . 32*0 ,.. 47 O ... 20 

Obtaining a divorce is a more normal, 
everyday affair in America than it is in 
Europe, and resorted to by a more normal 
element of the population. It is true that 
there exists a theory that divorce and suicide 
are not related to each other as cause and 
effect, but that the apparent connection 
between them exhibited by the figures for 
European countries arises because in Europe 
both have their source in some abnormal 
condition, If such is the case, as divorce 
becomes more usual It will be accompanied 
by a 4NMAMA DNItffifiSffipide rate shown for 
the divorced classes. 

All countries grant absolute divorce with 



Fin* year (25) 

Second year (36 J 

year (3fl). 

Fourth year (5Q>, 

wlul year at married life provide* the moit divorces > The*e comparative figures *hew that I he fourth year ji the mail fatal 
-twice at many divorce* takintt place u in the fint year of marriage. 

the exception of 
tion only* In 
divorce can be 
belonging tu a 
religious profes- 
sion which per- 
mits divorce. In 
Austria, for ex- 
ample, divorce is 
not permitted to 
Catholics, All the 
countries grant 
separations in 
some form except 
Bulgaria^ For- 
mosa, Japan, and 
Roumania. Sepa- 
ration is also not 
recognized in the 
law governing the 
of Algeria. 

The divorce 
regulations of the 
non Christian 
countries in^ 
eluded amongst 
those mentioned 
are especially in- 
teresting from the 
contrast which 
they present to 
the Ljws of the 
other countries. 

Italy, which grants a se para- 
some countries, however, 
obtained only by those 

At the present rate of progress in Amenta* in fifty yean' time every three 
marriafct will provide oar divorce cave t 

In Algeria and Formosa particularly divorce 
is permitted on much less substantial grounds 
than in Christian countries. Thus among 
the Mohammedans of Algeria the husband 
is permitted to divorce his wife by the so- 
called method of repudiation, without assign- 
ing any cause, while the wife can obtain a 
divorce only by mutual consent or from the 
courts. In Formosa a husband may divorce 
his wife almost at will, while the wife cannot 
obtain divorce on any ground. 

Divorce is, as we said at the beginning, 
so greatly on the increase that it is now 
tsstirnated that in another fifty years, in 
America at least (and other countries are 
rapidly following her example), every third 
married person either has been or will be 

Hut after all it is Death who is the only 
truej long-established, and effectual divorcer. 
No instrument that man has forged can pre- 
vent severed hearts 
from reuniting, and 
the phenomenon of 
remarriage, which 
used to astonish the 

world, can now 

\ \ & \j W% supply numerous 

V -J^^^kt** instances which 

are among the 
-prWo st amazing 
" ,J priofs of the fickle- 
ness of poor human 




Illustrated by Gilbert Holiday. 

HI —The Persephone Tetradracnm. 

LORIANI was a collector of 
coins, a numismatist He 
has often told me that the 
passion seized him when 
a youth. As a waiter he 
had learned, probably from 
some client, that certain 
coins still in circulation possess a value 
greater than what is inscribed upon them. 
From that moment our padrone began to 
examine all coins passing through his 
hands ; and, presently, increasing knowledge 
stimulated him to start a collection. By the 
time I made his acquaintance this collection, 
although modest, was of remarkable interest, 
inasmuch as it contained a few really 
beautiful specimens. In Greek coins, for 
instance, the power of expression, the 
revelation of character, are carried to a 
degree of excellence which has never been 
equalled or surpassed. Gloriani, an artist 
to his fingertips, habitually carried some 
such coin in his purse, and would show it, 
on demand, to appreciative friends. 

" Ecco ! " he would say to me, " I have 
here, signore, a Camarina of the finest 
workmanship." And then the honest fellow 
would lay upon the tablecloth some exquisite 
silver didrachm, and expatiate as an expert 
upon the modelling of the river god, Hyparis, 
displayed on the obverse side, and, on the 
reverse, the nymph of the lake carried over 
its waters by a swan. 

" How adorable !" Gloriani would exclaim. 
" I become a pagan, signore, when I look 
at my Camarina." 

One morning I went into the Cosmopolis 
for breakfast and discovered my friend in 
a state of great excitement. He seized me 
by the arm, and for a moment I feared he 
was about to embrace me. r 

"She is coming here to-night," he whispered, 
in a voice broken by emotion. 

" Who is coming ? " I asked. 

" The divine Persephone ! " 

"What Persephone?" 

" Dio mio ! there is only one. Professor 
Clinton-Bowker brings her. Think of it ! " 

I confess that I was astonished. Professor 
Clinton-Bowker is a friend of mine, and he 
has a charming wife. That he should be 
seen at Gloriani's with some divinity who 
had assumed the ridiculous name of 
Persephone struck me as madly indiscreet 
and indecent 

11 1 know nothing of this young woman," 
I said, austerely. " Who is she ? " 

Gloriani replied : " Ma ! She is a gold coin, 
one of the rarest in the world — a tetradrachm. 
There are many Persephones, you under- 
stand, but this one is believed to be the 
work of Phidias. The Professor has hunted 
the world for her, and there have been others 
after her. An American ! But the goddess 
has descended upon the right man. Corpo 
di Bacco ! how I envy him ! " 

I ordered my breakfast. I was half-way 
through the omelette when Clinton-Bowker 
came in. His ordinarily impassive face 
exuded satisfaction. When he saw me he 
hurried up and, without offering to shake 
hands, gasped out : — 

" Gloriani has told you ? " 

" He has," said I. 

Clinton-Bowker sat down at my table. 
When Agostino saluted him he exclaimed, 
indifferently : — 

" Bring me something that is ready — a cut 
from the joint." 

Agostino's eyes bulged from his head. 
Obviously he thought that the Professor was 
mad ; and so he was, temporarily. 

" I bring the Persephone here to-night," 
said Clinton-Bowker, dropping his voice. 
"Stenhouse is coming, and Dumphrey. I 
insist upon your joining us. Eight sharp." 

" You are very kind." 

" Not at all. The facts may as well be 

A~~~~l \T U-ll 



given to the public through you. The tale 

is a romance. And my luck ! That 

scoundrel Kasten, who swindled me over 
the Gades hemidrachm, arrives in London 
to-day, my boy. To-day, think of it ! 
Twenty-four hours too late ! " He smacked 
his lips. 

" I thought Kasten was your friend." 

11 He is- But all the same he swindled me 
over that hemidrachm. I told him it was in 
Antwerp, like a fool, and he crossed the 
North Sea ahead of me. Now, at last, I can 
forgive him. Lord ! How furious he will 

" I hope you have asked him to dine ? " 

"Unhappily, I do not know his address. 
But he may call at my house. I shall leave 
a message. And then we shall see his face, 
when I produce my Persephone." 

" Is it so very beautiful ? " 

" Beautiful ! " He nearly screamed. " It 
is— unique." 

"But how did you get hold of it?" 

" Ah ! " He rubbed his hands and 

" Through a dealer ? " 

" No. Through a pawnbroker of the name 
of Rosenbaum. At least he says that he 
used to be a pawnbroker. He came to me." 


The most famous of English numismatists 
inclined his head. 

" Rosenbaum's story is simple . enough. 
Mionnet and Lenormant speak of the coin 
as being in Paris about the time of the 
Revolution. It was then considered the gem 
of a collection which was stolen during the 
Terror, and Mionnet is emphatic that it is 
unique. Lenormant questions this. At any 
rate, my man found the coin in Montmartre, 
and took it to Adrian Neuchatel, who pro- 
nounced it counterfeit. Then he brought it 
to England to show to me." 

" And it isn't counterfeit ? " 

Clinton- Bo wker snorted. 

" I'd stake my reputation on it." 

M Adrian Neuchatel ! " 

" Tut, tut. That gold vase in the British 
Museum was offered to half-a-dozen experts 
for a hundred guineas. We had to pay 
thousands. Neuchatel didn't like the looks 
of Rosenbaum. Nor did I. A hang-dog 
fellow ! But the coin is all right." 

" You had to pay a big price ? " 

" Yes, but not one-tenth of its value." 

" But how did Kasten hear of it ? " 

" I don't know that he did hear of it, and 
I donTt care." 

"Kasten would have paid a bigger price. 

Why didn't your man let Kasten bid against 

Clinton - Bowker frowned. I could see 
that my question annoyed him and therefore 
forbore to press it ; but it struck me that the 
dealer had missed a remarkable opportunity. 
Kasten had no tremendous international 
reputation like Clinton-Bowker, but he was 
very rich, and quite as keen a collector. A 
struggle between Kasten and the Professor 
for the possession of the Persephone would 
have been epic. I finished my breakfast and 
left the restaurant. 


Stenhouse and Dumphrey arrived at 
Gloriani's ahead of our host. Dumphrey, 
an impassioned pessimist, refused to believe 
in the Persephone. Stenhouse, however, 
not unmindful of the passage at arms with 
Clinton-Bowker concerning the metrological 
difficulties of the Augustan coinage, sus- 
pended judgment. He whispered to me 
solemnly that the affair was "epochal." We 
entered the restaurant, and I noticed that 
the table was laid for five instead of four. 
It was a corner table, artistically decorated 
for an historic occasion. Gloriani picked up 
a menu arid handed it to me. The entree 
was named " Surprise h la Persephone" 
Gloriani rubbed his hands and chuckled. 

" It will be worthy," he murmured, " of 
her and of me. Ebbene ! you will see." 

The Professor hurried in — but aLone. 

"A thousand pardons," he said, genially. 
" I hoped to have the pleasure of bringing 
Kasten. He landed at Liverpool this 
morning. He called at my house this after- 
noon and received a message asking him 
to join us here at dinner. He told my 
servant that he would send an answer. No 
answer has come. He is not here ? " 

"No," said I. 

"Then we'll sit down. I have ordered 
Clicquot '99. Gloriani has very little left." 

"And the Persephone?" growled Dum- 

"Is in my waistcoat pocket, my dear 
Dumphrey. You shall see it at the psycho- 
logical moment— after we have dined." 

I enjoyed my dinner. Apart from the 
fact that it was admirably cooked and served, 
my sense of comedy was being titillated. 

These collectors ! I confess that a 

Persephone tetradrachm leaves me cold as 
Greenland's ig<bjrahic*jmtains. Even a Mul- 
ready envelope provokes but a lukewarm 
appreciation. And some of the most price- 
less porcelain seems to my undeveloped taste A 



absolutely hideous. I take it, humbly, that 
I can't understand these things. But the fact 
remains that they intoxicate others. Here 
were three men, sober subjects of the King, 
ratepayers and imperialists, fathers of families, 
and each — in his degree — stark, staring mad 
about coins. Everybody likes coins fresh 
from the mint; everybody tries to collect 
them, but these three raved about Greek 
coins. Clinton-Bowker, for instance, is an 
excellent fellow, and he tips his boy hand- 
somely when he goes down to Harrow. All 
the same, I give you my word that what 
his son and heir is doing and thinking 
melts into absolute insignificance compared 
to the coinage of Phoenicia, and the vital 
question as to whether certain specimens 
were struck after or before the Persian 
rule! I confess that my crumpled roseleaf 
upon this memorable occasion was the 
absence of Kasten,- whom I had entertained 
at Gloriani's when he was last in England. 
Apparently Kasten had made slight impres- 
sion upon the padrone, for Gloriani, when 
I spoke of Kasten, had quite forgotten him. 

Throughout dinner I was sensible of 
Dumphrey's lack of faith in the Persephone, 
of Stenhouse's dwindling hope that Clinton- 
Bowker had been humbugged, and of Clinton- 
Bowker's ever - increasing self-complacency 
and triumph. Gloriani hovered about us, 
unable to tear himself away. He served the 
surprise h la Persephone himself. 

Clinton-Bowker tapped his waistcoat and 
laughed genially. 

" I've ordered a bottle of '63 port," he 
said to Dumphrey. "We shall toast the 
lovely lady in a noble wine. Kasten may 
turn up yet." 

The story of how the coin came into his 
possession was again told, with a few extra 
details not worth recording. It pleased me 
that Dumphrey should make the remark 
which had seemed obvious to me. 

" Why wasn't Kasten allowed a whack at 

Clinton-Bowker, mellowed by Clicquot, 
said, suavely, " You must ask him when he 

" He won't come," said Dumphrey, 
gloomily. " Depend upon it, if he crossed 
to buy this coin, on purpose, I mean, why 
then he must be the sickest man in Europe. 
I see him curled up in a hole somewhere." 

"Sobbing his heart out," said Clinton- 
Bowker, cheerfully. 

I happened to notice that the lady at 
the next table seemed to be interested in 
>ur talk* She had challenged attention 

by arriving in a motor about the time we 
did. And I heard her ask the head-waiter: 
"Is the Herr Baron here?" When he 
replied, politely : " Not yet, madame," she 
shrugged a too fat pair of shoulders, and 
answered with some asperity : " Mein 
'osband is always late; I shall begin." 

She dined alone, for the Herr Baron did 
not turn up. I could not blame her, 
therefore, for taking an interest in us. I 
remember that her table manners delighted 
me, because they were so bad. She 
appeared to be a German, and she ate 
with four feet in the trough. Also she 
annoyed me by twice summoning the 
waiter by striking a wineglass with her 
knife. An Englishman is never so much 
at his ease as when he is making com- 
parisons between himself and illustrious 
foreigners, to the disadvantage of the latter. 
The Baroness — I marked a grotesquely 
preposterous wedding-ring — did herself well. 
I could see that even Gloriani was impressed. 
She was a stranger, but from her smiles it 
was evident that she would come again — 
and again. 

Upon the other side of us sat an actress 
whom I knew, with a cavalier who was said 
to be about to supply the capital necessary 
to start her in management. And near the 
door, cool and conspicuous, I saw my young 
friend from Scotland Yard. He often dined 
at Gloriani's. When his eye met mine he 
nodded carelessly. 

Gloriani brought the port. 

The glasses were filled with the nectar. 

Clinton-Bowker, with an apology, nosed it 
and sipped it. 

" I pronounce it in perfect condition," he 
said, solemnly. Then he added : " Gloriani, 
you will join us ? " 

A fifth glass was brought and filled. 

I admit that I was thrilled when the coin 
was laid upon the table. Not that I cared a 
hang for IT, but what it represented — 
uniqueness — stirred me to the marrow. 
Dumphrey's small eyes protruded, Stenhouse 
licked his lips offensively, Gloriani looked 
upward, as if a vision of the goddess had 
been vouchsafed to him. Dumphrey, the 
senior of Stenhouse in years and experience, 
picked up the coin, stuck a glass into his 
right eye, and examined it in breathless 

" Well ? " demanded Clinton-Bowker. 

He sat back in his chair, rubicund, jovial, 
absolutely cocksure of the verdict. Dumphrey 
handed the coin to Stenhouse. 

" Looks the real thing," he said, cautiously. 



Stenhouse, poor 
fellow, stared at it 
avidly, with such 
an expression upon 
his thin face as may 
have been seen 
upon those un- 
happy starving cap- 
tives at Milan when 
rich viands were 
spread just without 
their reach. After 
a minute examina- 
tion, he said, 
hoarsely : — 

" I congratulate 
you. A superb 

Then he handed 
it to me. I tried 
to appear as if I, 
too, belonged to 
this noble company 
of numismatists. 
Bat even I per- 
ceived that the coin 
was a wonder. It was 
of [sale yellow gold, 
what Sophocles de- 
scribes as Sardian 
electrum. Elec- 
tnim, according to 
Pliny, is gold con- 
taining an alloy of 
one fifth of silver. 
The coin was rather 
larger than an 
American ten- 
dollar piece, and 
the equivalent of a 
double stater. The 
head of Persephone 

was exquisitely modelled, with a subtlety of 
characterization which seized vividly upon the 
imagination* Obviously a master, a genius, 
must have cut the die. The reverse side por- 
trayed the Queen of Hades, carrying a sceptre 
and a little box, in the act of being borne 
away by Pluto. I said, fervently: " By Jove ! n 
without any flippant reference to the sire 
of the lady, as I passed the tetradrachm to 
Gloriani* He murmured in adoration : — 

" Santissima Madonna ! " 

Then, oddly enough (bearing in mind 
»hat followed), Stenhouse exclaimed, with 
emotion :— 

11 1 could not trust myself alone with it* 

Clinton- Bowker chuckled fatly : — 

**I sha'n't give you the chance, my boy," 



Stenhouse has a little place at Shatli ford- 
on - Thames, and I have beheld him as 
churchwarden handing round the collection 
bag after the sermon. Watching him, as he 
gloated over the Queen of the Lower Regions, 
I said to myself that he ought to resign his 
responsible office. The poor man positively 
looked a thief. I saw his fingers curling 
inwards, itching to steal. 

Meanwhile Gloriani was examining the 

coin. Then he beckoned to an attendant 

waiter, who brought a small ebony pedestal. 

Gloriani placed the pedestal in the middle of 

p the table, and upon it the masterpiece. 

In silWiB^.WAw^^^^Hd"! 

At this solemn moment that wretched 
woman to our right struck her wineglass for 





r l - 


the third time, Gloriani glared at her. A 
waiter hurried up. 

And then the lights in the restaurant were 


A scene of confusion followed, and I 
remember hearing our padrone swearing 
under his breath. Then he stood up and 
exclaimed in a loud voice; — 

" Bring a lamp, or light some candles/* 
A lamp was brought immediately and then 
the light from the dec tries flooded the room* 

~jj Almost as 

r quickly the in* 
Agostino ap- 
Gloriani, and 
explained, with 
many gestures 
and sh rulings 
of shoulders, that 
the light had 
been turned off 
at the main, but 
by whom, or for 
what reason, re- 
mained darkest 

Someone sug- 
gested with a 
laugh: a A 
practical joke!" 
** If I discover 

the joker ! " 

growled Glori- 

Clinton -Bow* 
ker said, calmly: 
"Where is the 
Persephone? 1 ' 

It had dis- 

At first I 
thought that 
Dumphrey or 
Sten house had 
pocketed the 
coin for safety, 
but each, in 
turn, denied 
this emphati- 
: ' cally. 

I ' "It has been 

stolen/' said 
Clinton- Bowker, 
savagely. His 
glance accused Gloriani of the theft. 
"Corpo di Baeeo ! Jl exclaimed Gloriani. 
" Replace the coin," said Clinton-Bowker 
to the padrone, "and/' his voice trembled, 
" we will call it a joke, and say no more 
about it" 

"You dare to accuse me ?" said Gloriani, 
tapping his broad chest. 

Clinton Bowkeirr^peated, coldly : — 

"AilW^rr^a, such 

jests. Why do you accuse me?" 

A silence followed. Before the lights 



were extinguished many of the diners had 

left the restaurant. Our young friend from 

Scotland Yard was standing near the door. 

Gloriani burst out vehemently : — 
" Why do you accuse me, signore ? Why 

not accuse one of the others ? " 
Clinton- Bowker answered disdainfully : — 
"They are my friends and my guests. 
Also, how could one of them have turned 
out the light? Come, come, I make allow- 
ance for an act of folly. Give me back the 

coin, or " 

"Or ?" 

"I must summon the police." 

Cloriani laughed. 

"The police are here, signore. That 
gentleman is one of them. For the honour 
of my house I demand an investigation here 
and now." 

He spoke with such dignity that I became 
convinced of his innocence. Then he 
summoned the youngest and cleverest of 
detectives who had played such a notable 
part on the occasion of the attempt upon 
the life of General Count Spenckendorf. 

"Who are you, sir?" demanded Clinton- 

"I'm in the Criminal Investigation Depart- 
ment of Scotland Yard." 

" Indeed ! Pardon me — you — you hardly 
look the part" 

"That is my most valuable asset." 

Gloriani, crimson with rage, burst out : — 

" I am accused of stealing a valuable coin, 
a coin that is unique. Fortunately, I have 
not left the restaurant since the lights were 
extinguished. I admit that appearances are 
against me, but Professor Bowker is an old 

client, and ! Ebbene ! Search me here 

and now, before these others. It is a large 
coin, too large to swallow." 

"It might be swallowed," murmured 

"I would sooner swallow the Chianti of 
Franconi, that brutta bestia opposite/ 

"One moment," said the youngest and 
cleverest of detectives. " This coin is very 
valuable ? " 

"It is— priceless," replied Clinton-Bowker. 

By this time those who were left in the 
restaurant had formed a semicircle about 
us. The Baroness remained at her table. 

"Search me !" said Gloriani, with a superb 

"No one must leave the restaurant till 
this preliminary investigation is over. If the 
coin is not found I shall ask for the names 
and addresses of those present. I wish to 
add that the proprietor is a friend of mine. 

I am certain that he is incapable of stealing 
this coin." 

" That also is my conviction," said I. 

"Search me," repeated Gloriani, obsti- 

" May I suggest," continued the official, 
suavely, " that we give the thief an oppor- 
tunity of restoring the coin to its owner? 
Let the lights be turned out for a few 
seconds. This plan has been tried before 
successfully. Then let the coin be flung 
into the air. We risk the breaking of a glass, 

" Search me first," said Gloriani ; " I 
demand that." 

" Yes," said Clinton-Bowker, hoarsely. 

" Please stand back, ladies and gentlemen." 

Very deftly the young fellow began his 
search. In silence Gloriani's watch and 
chain and purse were laid upon the table. 
His purse was opened. It contained amongst 
coins familiar to all of us the adorable 

"This is not it?" 

" Pish ! " exclaimed Clinton-Bowker, testily. 
"That is a Syracusan didrachm." 

The young man from Scotland Yard 
examined the upper pockets of Gloriani's 
waistcoat. From the right-hand one he 
drew forth a small packet done up in news- 

"That is not mine," said Gloriani. 

"There seems to be something in it." 


" It feels like a coin, Gloriani." 

" I do not know what is in it, signore." 

" I shall take the liberty of unwrapping it." 

To our amazement and utter confounding 
he removed the wrapping of newspaper and 
held up — the Persephone tetradrachm ! 

" Dio mio ! " gasped Gloriani. 

"Just so," murmured Clinton-Bowker, 
holding out his hand. 

"You identify it?" 

"Perfectly. Ask these gentlemen." 

Stenhouse and Dumphrey nodded. 

"Yes," they said. " It's the Persephone." 

Gloriani looked like a noble bull at bay. 

"Have you anything to say?" murmured 
the ehief inquisitor. 

"I know nothing— nothing. See here," 
he turned to all of us in vehement protesta- 
tion. " That small parcel was handed to me 
late this afternoon. A man came in and 
greeted me effusively. You understand that 
— how you put it— TTiore people know Tom 

Fool t hiffmf) |J^>f /n|J fflVBB S W"^ 1 ^ 3 - Hundreds 
claim acquaintance with me ; and always, 
but always, I have to pretend that I knoi 





them. This man, this stranger, say to me, 
* Gloriani/ he say, * I have never forgot the 
dinner I eat here two years ago/ Of course 
I bow, and reply, 'Signore, it is impossible 
to forget some of the dinners that are served 
here ! * Then he say to me, '(^ariam, I am 
about to take an electric bath ; after that I 
shall sleep ; then I shall return here to dine, 
but I have in my pocket a small article of 
some value that I wish to leave with you. 
Put it in your safe, my friend.' Ebbene ! I 
understand. I consent. Often I am asked 
to take charge of such things. I put the 

>acket into my pocket. I forget all about it. 

icco ! n 

He spread out 
both his hands, 
and his head 
almost disap- 
peared between 
his shoulders. 
Clinton - Bowker 
said, scorn- 
fully :— 

u Where is the 
man ? tJ 

Gloriani an- 
swered : " The 
signore has not 
arrived yet," 

Clinton - Bow- 
ker smiled. 
Under the cir- 
cumstances he 
behaved with self- 
control and even 
sympathy, He 
said, curtly: "I 
am perfectly wiH- 
ing that the 
matter should end 

" I fear that is 
impossible," said 
the representative 
of the law, 

41 1 am inno- 
cent," exploded 
our poor padrone. 
Nobody said a 
word. What was 
there to say ? 

"I am the 
victim of a plot. 
That bruttabestia 
Fran con i has 
conspired to ruin 

He appealed 
pathetically to all of us. Tears stood in his 
eyes. Never in my life have I been so sorry 
for a man, and yet the evidence, it must be 
admitted, was overwhelming, 

<( I believe your story, Gloriani," said the 
official, gently. As he spoke a stranger 
entered the restaurant. I did not recognize 
him because he was clean-shaven instead 
of bearded. He greeted Bowker and myself. 
u Kasten, by Jove ! " exclaimed the Pro- 

™ * ■( .'nciiinal from * - *■ 

Gloriani |$aiq in, a -soporous voice, pointing 

a dramanc'fim^ man who gave 

me the Persephone. You did. Deny it not** 1 

" Of course I did," said Kasten. " What's 



all this fuss about ? " He turned to Clinton- 
Bowker. u I wanted to spring a surprise on 
you. I got your message, but I was worn 
out. I thought an electric bath would 
freshen me up for a great evening, but, Great 
Scot ! I dropped off to sleep after it, and 
only woke up half an hour ago. What are 
you staring at ? " 

He looked at me and I explained matters, 

" You claim this ? " said Bowker to 

"Why, certainly. I bought it this after- 

" I bought it yesterday/' 

l( It's mine," said Kasten. 

" It's mine," said Clinton-Bowker. To 
clinch the matter he put the tetradrachm 
into his pocket. Kasten, as I knew, com- 
bined the phlegm of the Teuton with the 
cool assurance of the Yankee, 
He smiled derisively. 

"You may have another 
specimen," he said, " probably 
a counterfeit, but if that coin 
was taken from Gloriani it 
belongs to me," 

" Yes," said Gloriani, wiping 
his forehead. 

The pride of the Criminal 
Investigation Department 
asked, languidly : — 

14 From whom did you buy 
this coin, gentlemen ? " 

11 From a dealer," said 

"From a pawnbroker," said 
Bowker. "A mean fellow," 
he continued, "mean in 
appearance, undersized, with 
a ragged lower lip and a 
simian forehead." 

Kasten nodded, adding : 
"The last joint of his little 
finger is missing, and his 
name is Israel Rosenbauni." 

Scotland Yard asked, 
qnietly : — 

11 Is his skin very yellow?" 

"Yes," they replied simul- 


"You know him?" 

''Yes* He is the famous 
coiner, Eugen Sehwartz. He 
came back from the French 
penal settlement in Guiana 
about six months ago." 

Clinton-Bowker pulled out 
the Persephone and stuck 

his glass into Ins eye. I saw him frown- 
ing, pursing a dubious lower lip. Then 
he oflered the coin to his great American 

** It J s yours," he said, grimly. 

Kasten took it 

" That is the duffer," continued the 
Professor, "which this rascal showed to 
Adrian Neuchatel. It's a splendid counter- 
feit, the cleverest I have ever seen. You 
are quite welcome to it," he added, politely. 
Then, in a different tone, with startling 
energy, he said, loudly, " Where is the 
original ? " 

"I think I can answer the question," 
replied the Inspector. " It will be found 
in the stocking of the lady sitting there. 
Schwartz, who is effectively disguised as a 
chauffeur, will doubtless advise her to 





surrender the 
coin without 
giving us 
any further 

The Baron- 
ess rose to 
her feet and 
shrieke d 

(( Be quite 
calm, madame," 
said our youth- 
ful investi- 
gator, "Your 
accomplice is 
already in cus- 
tody. That/' 
he explained to 
us, M is why I 
am here this 
evening* We 
have had the 
rogue under 
ever since he 
landed in Eng- 

The coin was 
duly found in 
the lady's 
stocking, and 
since it has 
been univer- 
sally acclaimed 
as genuine. 
1 Chance pre- 
sented it to 
one of the 
knaves in the 
world, an ex- 
pert counter- 
feiter, who saw an opportunity of selling 
bogus replicas to, perhaps, half - a- dozen 
collectors* Adrian Neuchatel was too 
clever for him, Kasten fell an easy 
victim. CUnton-Bowker, he knew, could 
not be imposed upon. He sold him the 
original coin, and then devised a plan to 
regain possession of it. The Professor had 
mentioned indiscreetly that he proposed to 
exhibit his new treasure to Dumphrey and 
Stenhouse at Gloriani's. 


Amongst a 
hundred waiters 
there is always 
one who, to 
eye, reveals 
himself as un- 
scrupulous and 
Schwartz per- 
s u a d e d a 
Florentine to 
turn off the 
light at the 
main when the 
wineglass was 
struck for the 
third time. 

Never the* 
less, thinking 
over the inci- 
dents of this 
little comedy, 
one thing 
puzzled me. 
Our youthful 
Holmes knew 
that the 
" Baroness " 
was the thief. 
Why, therefore, 
had he made 
the suggestion 
of turning out 
the lights a 
second time? 
1 put the 
question to 

"I was cer- 
tain," he re- 
plied, "that the 
woman would 
seize any oppor- 
tunity to slip 
out of the restaurant. I intended to arrest 
her quietly. Of course, I was not quite 
sure that she had stolen the Persephone 

till n 

He smiled* 
14 Till?" 

**Till I saw her back teeth when another 
coin was found in Gloriani's pocket. She 
and I were the two most agape persons in 
that roorQriginalfrom 

^UlfellWWJfcLtW^^ffiVthird;' said I. 


Written and Illustrated t>y HARRY FURNISS. 

jlINCE the days of Hogarth 
artists have been the com- 
panions and friends of actors. 
By artists I mean those few 
who are men of the world, 
and not the mote type of 
painter, who apparently goes 
to sleep for the winter and wakes up for the 
picture-shows in the spring. 

There is a great deal in common between 
the actor and the artist. The true artist is 
strongly dramatic, for should not every 
picture be a play ? And the actor must be 
an artist also, for should not every scene in 
which he acts present a picture ? The French 
word tableau applies equally to both, 

Still, I have often been impressed as an 
artist by the want of care in details which is 
sometimes exhibited .even in the best theatres 
and by the most painstaking and assiduous 
of stage -managers, A few instances will 
suffice to illustrate my meaning* 

I have seen, for instance, at a West-end 
London theatre the typical artist of modern 
comedy in the velveteen coat, red tie, and 
auburn moustache (who always falls madly 
in love with a daughter of the house in the 

first act) painting a watercolour sketch upon 
paper with oil-brushes / 

At another London theatre of good standing 
I remember a play in which the wife, daughter, 
and female servants seemed to have fallen 
easy victims to the irresistible fascinations of 
a young artist who had arrived at a country 
house to paint the portrait of its mistress. 
The canvas upon which he was painting the 
chef-d'oeuvre was— judiciously or the reverse, 
as the sequel will show — turned away from 
the footlights, so that the audience could only 
see the back of it. First the heroine would 
come sidling in and, gazing at it with an 
hysterical simper, exclaim, "Oh, Alphonse, 
my heart's idol ! Can it be that I am indeed 
so wondrous fair as that!* 1 and, turning 
aside, mutter in s&tto voct y " Does he then 
indeed love me ? " Presently a saucy house- 
maid would pop in with a note and, 
catching sight of the priceless work of 
art on the easel, declare with irrepressible 
enthusiasm: "Why, it's missus! And the 
very image of her, I do declare! Ain't the 
dress beautiful ?" Just for all the world like 
certain art critics at the Academy. A little 
later it came to the husband's turn. He had 





a very tragic scene in front of the portrait, 
and then at a critical moment, when all the 
characters were gating at it together and 
uniting in a chorus uf unqualified admiration 
at the Sir Joshua-like genius of the velvet- 
coated one, the easel 
accidentally toppled 
over, and laughter 
rang long and loud 
through the house 
when the canvas 
which had excited 
such unbounded en- 
thusiasm was dis- 
covered to be perfectly 
blank ! 

In these days, when 
dramatic critics are 
nothing if they are not 
exact and omniscient, 
it may be interesting 
to record one or two 
instances of almost 
ludicrous napping on 
their part. In the 
prai se wort hy re pro - 
duction of u Masks 
and Faces M at the 
Haymarket Theatre a 
few years ago, when 
Mr, and Mrs, Ban- 
croft, now Sir Squire 
and Lady Bancroft, 
received columns of 
eulogy in the Press 
about the wonderful 
dresses and scenery of 
the revival, and were 
justly commended for 
the minute attention 
to details which were 
displayed, not a single 
critic detected that 
Triplet had the picture 
which he was sup^ 
posed to be painting 
placed against the 
window in such a manner that no light could 
possibly have fallen upon it, whereas the 
merest tyro in art is aware that when a painter 
is at work he invariably places his easel at 
right angles to the window, so as to receive 
all the light that is possible. 

Again, Mine. Sarah Bernhardt, who is 
supposed to be something of an artist as well 
as an actress, is called upon in one of her 
marvellous creations to enact the rdk of a 
sculptor, and to model a certain bust in view 
:>f the audience. This fairly electrified the 

ON THE STAl.t:, 

critics, but when going into rhapsodies over 
the technical skill in handling the clay which 
Mme. Bernhardt exhibited they showed that 
they knew little of the artistic tricks of actors 
and actresses ; as a matter of fact, she does 

nothing of the kind. 
The bust is modelled 
and baked, and over 
it is placed damp clay 
of the same colour. 
This the talented 
actress merely pulls 
off, leaving the beauti- 
fully - modelled head 

I well recollect the 
first night of M La 
Tosca" at the Lyceum. 
The "Divine Sarah" 
looked as young as a 
fascinating girl of 
seventeen, and spoke 
with that charming 
voice which all who 
have heard her will 
ever remember, Htr 
lover is at the moment 
of her entry supposed 
to be painting a fresco 
in the cathedral, but 
he paints it on the 
usual stretched canvas. 
Fresco painting has to 
be done on freshly- 
prepared cement, put 
on in bits as the 
painter works, and his 
colours dry simultane- 
ously with the cement, 
or whatever prepara- 
tion he may use— 
another incongruity in 
art matters on the 
stage, although, as 
I have already men- 
tioned, Sarah Bern- 
hardt is an artist. 
So is Sir Herbert Beerbohm Tree, 
and not long ago he produced Mr, Hall 
Caine's drama, " The Eternal City," in which 
a portrait in clay again played an important 
part* The portrait is in progress, therefore 
the clay is wet ; in fact, Lai Brough (alas ! now 
no more), as the assistant in the studio, had to 
see that this was done — in the presence of 
the audience Sir H. Tree, a few minutes 
later, «tiMftWi*JJ«V^t*ifhpt for the sitter, 
strikes a match across the bust and lights 
his cigarette, an effective and subtle piece of 



i[ LA TO'.CA, 




business which went down with the audience, 
but roused me lo ask Tree over supper after 
the play how he, an artist, could do anything 
so absurd as to light a match on wet clay, 
and anything so clever, for I knew the clay 
was wet. 

"You artists are too critical," he replied. 
" [t will never strike the public that one 
can't light a match on wet clay," 

"But how did you?" 

"Oh — simply enough! I had let into the 
clay at the back of the bust a piece of metal 
purposely made to strike matches upon —the 
same as you see in railway carriages," 

Recently, Mr, George Alexander produced 
a play by Mr, Alfred Sutro, "John Glayde's 
Honour/' in which there is a studio scene 
with the usual properties. The statue 
of the Venus of Milo, without which no 
artist's study is complete, was prominent— 
was too prominent, in fact, for it was as 
white as snow, and evidently had just been 
sent from the modeller's shop — as well as 

George Alexander's hand as he stood in front 
of it and made his most effective speech, 
A hurried note from me that evening I 
believe rectified these artistic blemishes in 
this clever production* Still, all the private 
letters in the world to actors from an artist 
will never cure them of going on the stage 
with clothes, hat, and boots fresh from their 
costumiers. Over and over again a hunting- 
man will come upon the scene and describe 
some splendid run he has just had with the 
hounds — or he may be a country gentleman 
who lives in the saddle—yet his boots are 
spotless; there is no mud upon them, and 
no signs of chafing on the stirrup leather. 

These are small details \ it is nut artists 
only who detect them, but all whom they may 
concern, such as hunting-men and squires. 

1 suppose that ladies, who form the greater 
portion of theatre-goers* are quite reconciled 
by this time to seeing the village maiden, 
the poor cottager's daughter, the fisherman's 
child, in the worst weathers, tripping about 

^r*«~ - S£^£S=, 

~ "<z&& 


other casts hanging on the walls. This 
grated upon the artistic eye, for I have never 
seen any studio, except that of a young lady 
who has just left the art schools, with a 
statue that was not well browned with smoke 
and dust, probably disfigured with penciled 
memoranda, and adorned with some pro* 
perty, or perhaps the solitary tall hat, of 
the Bohemian artist Furthermore, the cast 
of the hand, which was just the height of 
the actor's, was exactly the pose of Mr. 

the muddy roads and storm- washed shores in 
the lightest of muslin gowns and the daintiest 
of French high-heeled shoes. But were an 
artist tu paint a picture and so depict Nature, 
the critics would soon remind him of his faults. 
In large productions some startling incon- 
gruities have met my eye* Miss Terry's 
famous performance of " Lady Macbeth," 
immorttM^^'J.^tlff^^^tT^ painting of her in 
that part, now hanging in the Tate Gallery, 
shows her in a dress which Lady Macbeth 



never could have worn. It is most effective, regular intervals, like the hoops on a croquet 

and is made out of beetles 1 wings. The lawn. It was a Balfc opera, in which the 

history of that dress is this. heroine dies of thirst, and I was informed 

It so happened that I was present at an that as a curtain prima donna who sang this 

interesting little dinner, at which Miss Terry, dry part could not get through the great 

who sat opposite to me, was admiring the effort without refreshment, she rolled over 

dress of the lady by my side, then Lady 
Randolph Churchill, now Mrs. George Corn- 
wallis-West. Lady Randolph wore an evening 
gown made of beetles' wings. Miss Terry, 
directly after dinner, asked Lady Randolph 
if she could inform her where in America 
they could be 
obtained. Lady 
Randolph tore 
off a small por- 
tion of her gown 
and gave it to 
Miss Terry. This 
was the specimen 
out of which 
Mrs. Co my ns 
Carr built the 
now famous Mac- 
beth dress which 
was never seen 
in Scotland ex- 
cept on Miss 

Even the best of actors make mistakes, 
deliberately, perhaps, as the following will 
show. In one of the famous Drury Lane 
autumn dramas that splendid actor, Mr. 
Henry Neville, played the part of the Premier 
in the House of Commons, in which he made 
a great speech ; but having some Order of 
the Garter, or something of that kind, he 
wore the broad ribbon across his shirt-front. 
I took the liberty of pointing out to Mr. 
Neville that no members in the House wore 
their Orders. 

1( True, my boy ; but then how on earth 
would the audience know I was the big-wig 
in the scene if I hadn't some distinguishing 

I have seen actors wear the Order of the 
Garter on the right leg instead of the left, 
which reminds me of the story of the German 
lithographers who reproduced an historical 
English picture in which the late King wears 
the Order of the Garter They dispatched a 
telegram after their proof had left them to 
send it back, as they found they had made a 
great mistake — they had only given the King 
one garter* The production went forth with 
the Order on both legs! 

I recollect being annoyed by a scene in 

rand opera representing the sea-shore, 

he rocks were most inartistically placed at 


stage rocks, behind which were placed pots 
of porter at frequent intervals, at each of 
which she had a pull as she turned over in 
supposed anguish. 

What theatrical dresses are made of would 
be an interesting matter to discuss. Sir 

Henry Irving's 
princely gar- 
ments, which 
looked all right 
from the front, 
were so dear to 
him that he never 
would alter them, 
and as time went 
on they would 
have disgraced 
an old - clothes 
shop, I have 
had all his cos- 
tumes in my 
studio, so I know, 
and Miss Terry, 
in her interesting reminiscences, mentions the 
fact that Sir Henry would never have any- 
thing done to smarten up the costumes he 
had worn so long. 

Hurried dressings often bring about 
ludicrous incongruities in costume. I 
remember in my early days the massive form 
of the well-known English singer, Ainsley 
Cooke, I was in his dressing-room at the 
old Adelphi when he was playing Falstaff. 
i[ Ah," he said, ll I am thankful for one 
thing, I am blessed with an angel for a wife. 
In fact, I don't know r what I should do with- 
out her, I don't trust to my dresser. My 
household genius comes every day and places 
all my things ready for me. By Jove, I'm 
late I Here, just help me on with these 
things* This basket-body of mine-— here, 
stuff all these things in ! Pve sent my 
man out for a paper. Well, that angel of 
a wife of mine — hang me, I've only one 
boot on! Where the deuce is the other? 
I must be on in a minute. Gad, what has 
that careless woman done with it? That's 
my call! But where's my boot? Oh, why 
am I cursed with an idiot for a wife?" 

He stormedljriltfeDiifiaged ; I and the 
call-boj[NMANA^Wr«EK3lWere for FalstafTs 
other boot The singer cursed his matri- 
monial fate, and just then my amateurish 



dressing caused his basket-costume to fall 
off! That moment I felt it time to escape, 
but just as I was picking up my hat I cast 
one glance at the strange, exciting scene — 
Falstaff, in despair and rage, with one boot, 
and his massive frame, parted from his waist, 
lying in front of him— but, to the delight of 
all, from within that basket-body stuck out 
the missing boot ! In the hurry of dressing, 
it had been stuffed inside* 

Of all actresses, Mrs. Kendal excepted^ 
perhaps Miss Terry is the readiest. When 
on tour with my lecture-entertainments I 
have more than once found myself in the 
same hotel as my friends Sir Henry Irving 
and Miss Ellen Terry, so we foregathered a 
good deal and I have many agreeable 

— four o'clock in the afternoon, It is the 
lecturers' hour also, for later dinners are fatal 
to anyone having to talk from stage or plat- 
form for a considerable time, beginning at 
eight o'clock. 

After our late lunch or early dinner, or 
whatever one cares to call such a meal, a 
patent coffee -maker was produced, but no 
methylated spirit was to be found, 

" Ring for some ! Nonsense, I am a woman 
of resource," said our hostess. "See, Fll 
make the coffee boil with matches alone" — 
and so she did It took twenty minutes 
or more, but during that time Miss Terry 
became so delightfully excited with her 
self-imposed task, so merry and vivacious, 
that had such a scene taken place on the 

"where is i-alstaff's boot?" 

reminiscences of those pleasant days l( on 
the road." 

I am reminded of one dinner in par* 
ticular by turning up a letter from Miss 
Terry, in which she writes, "How funny you 
are to remember about the coffee ! Now I 
remember it I" Shall I ever forget it! It 
was in the Windsor Hotel in Glasgow. Miss 

stage it would have proved one of her 
greatest triumphs. She danced and jumped 
about, and sat on the floor to watch, and on 
the sofa to cheer, and ran about for more 
boxes of matches, and eventually poured 
coffee out Lc the tune of "See the conquering 
hero C(Ht^AHAUfW^W^Y Craig was busy 
making those property books which he, as 

Terry invited me to dinner at the actors 1 hour the young poet, latur in the day flung about 



in that charming comedy " Nance Oldfield." 
In fact, Miss Terry was Nance in real life in 
that coffee- brewing scene, and possibly just 
engaged in doing what Nance Oldfield would 
have done under similar circumstances. 

Sir Herbert Beerbohm Tree is as great a 
wit as he is an actor and manager. • I trust 
he has his Boswell, so that some day we may 
have a worthy collection of his clever sayings. 
But I must not flatter; I must record some 
of his bons mots I myself have heard him say, 
and one is that Sir Herbert dislikes flattery, 
and he has said so in these words : " Flattery 
makes the great little, the little never great." 

I had the pleasure of numbering Sir 
Herbert Tree as one of my friends some 
time before he adopted the stage as his 
profession. In his early days he was a- 
much - sought - after amateur in London 
Society, and in those days gave very clever 
imitations of the leading actors. I have 
never seen any burlesques or parodies to 
equal- young Tree's efforts. The cleverer 
they were, the nearer the original, the more 
they were appreciated by all but those 
burlesqued. Now, the biter is frequently bit 
in real earnest, but Sir Herbert's shoulders 
are wide— wider than the late Sir Henry 
Irving's, who could not tolerate anyone 
making fun at his expense. Sir Herbert 
Tree, apropos of his too funny imitators, 
made one of his best bons mots: "A man 
never knows what a fool he is until he sees 
himself imitated by one." 

Generally, when men rise above Bohe- 
mianism their skins become thinner. There 
is no doubt Sir Herbert Tree now stands at 
the top of his profession — the Irving mantle 
of management fell upon his shoulders, 
but it covers a heart that is still true to 
Bohemianism. He is, in fact, of all my 
clever friends, the least altered by success. 
I once heard him make a remark which sums 
up this peculiarity: "The greatest luxury of 
life is to be able to afford to be yourself and 
nothing else. Besides, it is well to be born 
conceited, for then success does not flurry 

Of Bohemianism he said: "I drink to 
Vagabondage, the only bondage of the free." 

Strange as it may seem, there are still 
some narrow-minded persons who look upon 
the theatre as a sink of iniquity and actors 
and actresses with abhorrence. It is a pre- 
judice that is dying hard. One evening Sir 
Herbert Tree was invited to dine with a very 
distinguished hostess. As soon as Sir Herbert 
entered the house, his host dragged him on 
one side and said, " For goodness' sake 

don't let my wife know you are an actor. 
You must pretend to be something else — 
anything will do." 

Sir Herbert smilingly acquiesced, but was 
somewhat nonplussed when introduced as " a 
distinguished Ambassador from Java." He 
knew nothing of Java, not even where it 
could be found on the map. 

Being the distinguished guest of the even- 
ing, the "Ambassador" took in his hostess to 
dinner. The host, a man of wit, fiendishly 
enjoyed drawing the "Ambassador," who 
parried his wit with gravity if with difficulty, 
for he knew absolutely nothing of the country 
he was supposed to represent. Unfortunately, 
his host did, and suddenly put the following 
question to the "Ambassador": — 

" I am most interested in the country you 
have just come from. Can you tell me, how 
is the nutmeg trade ? " 

This was a critical moment ; everyone at 
the table waited for the reply. It came glibly. 

"Sir," said Sir Herbert, with an air of 
authority, " I am pleased to say it has lately 
received an impetus from the importation of 
nutmeg-graters from the United States." 

"I am glad to hear so ; but, ah ! pray, sir, 
how does that affect it ? " 

" Pardon me, that is a secret of the nutmeg 
trade ! " 

Sir Herbert frequently puts in his own little 
tit-bits in plays he acts in. If I am not 
mistaken one is — " All men are equal except 
myself — Nero." 

In a dramatic scene in "The Vandyke" 
he brought in the following pen-picture : " I 
never saw such tempestuous passion as yours ; 
it's like a mad chaos of sea, dashing drowned 
mermaids on a shrieking shore." 

Sometimes Sir Herbert's witticisms are 
whispered into the ears of the great Speak- 
ing of Suffragettes to a Cabinet Minister he 
remarked, apropos of the attitude these 
fanatical ladies adopt, "You can't knock off 
a man's hat, and then expect him to take 
it off." 

Another blossom of wit from the Tree : 
"It is better to take a little too much than 
much too little." 

Sir Herbert's satire is truly delightful, A 
friend of his, in whose geniality he detected 
a touch of east wind, asked him how it was 
that Sir Herbert, buffeted by fate, was able to 
turn a kindly countenance to thfe world. 
" Ah ! " replied Sir Herbert. " I'll tell you, 
my dear fellow, the secret of my philosophy. 
Like the ostrich, I hide my head in the sand, 
and that attitude enables me to turn a smiling 
back to my enemies." 

Customs at Foreign Courts 


his readable book, " The Art 
of Conversation," makes some 
apt remarks on national dif- 
ferences in manners and 
customs. He maintains that 
these only become clearly 
defined in the humbler classes, and that 
highly-born, highly-cultivated people are alike 
everywhere — in London, Paris, Rome, Berlin, 
Vienna, and St. Petersburg. There are, he 
admits, shades of contrast in tone and tem- 
perament, bred of climate and circumstances ; 
but in ideals of conduct, and in refinement of 
speech and bearing, there is, he says, a 
stereotyped standard of perfection. The 
society man in either capital is built on the 
same lines, has the same tone of voice, the 
same manner, and — probably — the same 
morals. And women who belong to the 
highest social class have a like resemblance to 
each, irrespective of nations and languages. 
This is no doubt true as regards mind, 
manners, and bearing, but we who know 
the world are aware that a wide difference 
exists with respect to social rules and Court 

For instance, unlike London, several Con- 
tinental capitals have a winter instead of a 
summer season. Of these are Rome, Berlin, 
Stockholm, Christiania, Copenhagen, and St. 
Petersburg. And Vienna has two seasons — 
one that begins on January 6th and lasts 
until Ash Wednesday, and a second that 
opens about Easter and lasts until the 
Viennese Derby Day, early in June. France 
has no Court, but the gay season in Paris 
more or less synchronizes with ours in 
London. This, by the way, is the reason 
why so many smart Parisians come to London 
in July, and are to be seen at the second 
Court ball and at Goodwood. 

Now, I that have seen men and cities will 
write some of my most vivid impressions. 
First we will take a look at Berlin, as the 
English and German Courts are near akin in 
relationship. Berlin has a season as brief as 
it is brilliant. . The gay time begins with 
strict precision in the third week in January. 
It opens with the sumptuous Defiler Cour, 
held at the Berlin Schloss, at which Court, . 
diplomatic, and general society pay formal 
respects to the Emperor and Empress. Then 

comes the Chapter of the Black Eagle on the 
Emperor's birthday, January 27th; and the 
giay time is wound up by a masked ball, 
given on Shrove Tuesday, which finishes 
with a cotillon and ends before midnight. 
Into this short six weeks is crowded an end- 
less round of gaiety, which includes a State 
ball, a Court, diplomatic dinners, and a 
gala night at the opera. And every week 
concerts are given at the Royal palace, a few 
special guests being invited to tea on other 
evenings, but these are privileged persons on 
a more intimate footing. 

An Englishwoman of position who wishes 
to appear at Court must find a friend who 
will introduce her officially to the Ober- 
hofmeisterin — a sort of feminine Lord 
Chamberlain — who is an arbiter of fate 
with regard to Court presentations. This 
dignitary holds a reception of her own 
previous to the Court, which would-be 
presentees must attend, as it were on 
approval. If all goes well the aspirant is 
in due course bidden to a Court reception. 
Courts at Berlin begin at nine. Full even- 
ing dress must be worn, with trains, but no 
veil or feathers, and black gowns are not 
permitted. At the beginning of the recep- 
tion the feminine element is carefully 
"sorted" — married women in one room and 
girls and debutantes in another, and in this 
latter new comers-out are placed on one 
side, and on the other those who have 
already gone through the ordeal. The 
Throne Room is entered between double 
rows of pages in scarlet, and, after deep 
curtsies to the assembled Royalties, the 
ladies pass onward into the picture gallery, 
whence they make their way into another 
fine apartment, where a band plays and the 
guests are served with light refreshments. 

The lady presented has now notified her 
wish to be invited to some of the Court enter- 
tainments. A Court ball at Berlin is opened 
with much ceremony. The German Emperor 
and Empress enter with their suites, and the 
Ambassadresses stand about the throne in the 
Court circle. Their Imperial Majesties never 
dance, but converse with their guests in an 
amiably ^fl^N | ''ftjR^fT^ wa Y» ^e Emperor 
lays much stress on good dancing, and will 
allow no one who is not an expert to dance 
at the Palace. A Court official sits in a 




The Ceremony of the Black Eagle on the Emperor's Birthday. 

gallery and watches the dancers, and should 
he detect any errors in either ladies or 
men he, later on, communicates with the 
Emperor, and the culprit is notified that 
he or she must become more proficient 
before being again invited to the Palace. 
Times have changed since the then I^ady 
Randolph Churchill paid a visit to Berlin 
in r888. In her memoirs she describes life 
at the German Court as extremely modest 
nd simple. But since that time Germany 

has become more plutocratic* Germans have 
given up the old traditions of Prussian 
Einfachheit^ and now practise excessive luxury. 
At least, this is so in the Court set and in 
smart society. The German Empress owns 
diamonds that are priced at half a million, 
besides ropes of pearls and other jewels of 
inestimabl&'liJfiMtedl fr^tid women in the best 
set drettdDllAh^*liy6RSU ! iid in a style that 
would grace New York's "diamond horse- 
shoe" or the glories of Buckingham Palace. 



Vienna is far and away the most exclusive 
capital in Europe, As a smart woman once 
remarked : *' It is easier to get into the 
kingdom of Heaven than into the best set in 

The Emperor of Austria is now an aged 

man and a widower ; but there are generally 

two Court balls — a big one called the HofbalX 

and another, the Ball bei der Hof^ which is 

limited to the high nobility, the Household, 

and a few favoured friends of Royalty. 

Court etiquette in Austria has always been 

of extreme rigidity; but within the magic 

circle nothing can exceed the ease and 

gaiety — everyone is full of wit and sparkle, 

sure of themselves and of their entourage. 

When a Court is hdd, ladies are presented 

to the Emperor by the Grande Maiiresse^ 

who is a most important personage. They 

stand in a row, and after they have been 

presented the aged Monarch speaks a few 

-vords to each in a kindly manner. AH 

Austrians, however, have not the privilege of 

being presented. To secure this right it is 

necessary to produce sixteen quarterings, 

eight on each side of the house ; but 

Hungarians^— who seem specially favoured — 

need only produce eight quarterings. Women 

of the British aristocracy are always received 

with much courtesy by the aged Emperor, 

At Vienna the invited guests arrive at a 

Court ball at half-past eight, and at nine the 
Emperor and Imperial party enter the room 
and dancing begins. 

In Vienna society can be divided into 
three distinct sections. First comes the 
Court, the aristocrats, leaders of the haute 
finance^ and the highest class of Government 
official Next in rank is the haute bourgeoisie^ 
which is a more remarkable class in Vienna 
than in any other capital in Europe, This 
again can be divided into sets— the Jewish 
and the Christian, The first represents vast 
riches, and in it may be found members of 
the Bourse and Bank, some famous lawyers, 
and a few literary men and editors of great 
newspapers. And the second set comprises 
savants^ artists, manufacturers, and the rank 
and file of Government officials. After these 
comes the petite bourgeoisie^ whose members 
live on small means and in complete 

The Russian Court has extreme brilliance, 
and goes one better than any other Court in 
Europe in the way of luxury and an almost 
barbaric magnificence. The season is in the 
winter, and lasts until Easter. Several Court 
balls take place, and an invitation to one of 
these is an imperative command, to which 
only illness or the deepest mourning can be 
given as an excuse for absence- On such an 
occasion the Winter Palace is a dream of 




fairyland. The State rooms, which are 
among the finest .in Europe, are richly gilded 
and furnished with much magnificence. And, 
with an outside temperature below zero, 
the malachite saloon and the vast halls and 

galleries are 
with rare 
that bloom 
house atmo- 
All the men 
ribbons and 
and splendid 

in a hot- 

Christmas Day is on January 7 th and New 
Year's Day on J an u ary 14th. T h is !a st- na med 
date sees the blessing of the Neva by the 
Emperor, at which Russian ladies also wear 
their special Court dress, and which^ makes 
a great event of the winter season. 

The Royal Families of England and 
Denmark are linked by marriage, but there 
is not much brilliance in the Court of 
Copenhagen, This northern capital has the 
shortest season on record. It begins in 
February and ends in March. 

JVwn a] 

Blessing the waters of the Neva in the presence of the Czar. 

I I'Hatafmtf "A. 

are seen—the officers of the Imperial Guard 
resplendent in white and gold, the Lancers 
in scarlet, the Hussars in green, and the 
Cossacks in silver. The only black coat is 
that of the American Ambassador, And 
nowhere else can be seen such gowns, 
jewels, and decorations. Russian Court ladies 
wear a special Court dress, a glorified edition 
of the national costume. Black gowns are 
disallowed as in Berlin. The ladies "of the 
portrait " wear a miniature of the Empress 
set in diamonds, and the maids of honour 
have her initials in diamonds on a blue 
ribbon worn on the shoulder. 

A Court ball begins at nine, and everyone 
must be present before the entrance of 
Royalty* The ball opens with a dance called 
a polonaise, led by the Empefor and Empress. 
The Emperor dances with a grand duchess 
and the Empress with an ambassador. 
Quadrilles and valses follow, and a national 
dance known as the mazurka. Less splendid 
but even more choice are the smaller and 
more intimate dances, called the hah des 
palmier s* When these are given the long 
gallery is transformed into a tropical forest, 
with Rowers, plants, and tree-ferns, and among 
the scented greenery are set little tables 
with supper for five hundred persons. At the 
bigger Court balls as many as three thousand 
guests are served at the same time with supper, 
Backward in time fis in all else, the Russian 

The Queen of Denmark is of a serious 
nature and decidedly religious turn of mind. 
However, Courts are held, and there are 
some Palace entertainments. Trains are not 
compulsory at the Danish Court, but full 
evening dress is required, and men wear their 
uniforms on some of these occasions. Black 
is not allowed at Court ; white is. But there 
is one thing that is uncommon in the Court 
ceremonial. The wives of the nobility and 
of- high officials when in mourning have a 
right to wear a peaked head-dress. 

Etiquette in Copenhagen is different from 
that which prevails in I.ondon. New-comers 
are expected to ask to be introduced to those 
whom they njeet in the houses where they 
visit, and it is usual for them to leave cards 
at once on the residents- Dinners are early 
even in the smart set — at six - thirty or 
seven. The service is slow, and the long 
evening that follows is apt to be a trifle 

The Swedish Cuurt is much more amusing, 
especially since the advent of the Crown 
Princess, once our own Princess Margaret of 
ConnaughL But there is a rule in force at 
Court balls which seems a trifle peculiar. The 
ladies who dance appear in white, and black 
must be worn by the wall flowers, 

Nor^lft^Wfi^'fieSTOependent kingdom 
with a separate King, and its Court customs 
are still in embryo. In Norway titles of 



nobility do not exist, and in this respect it 
resembles the Courts of Athens, Belgrade, 
and Bucharest King Haakon js one of the 
handsomest and best-dressed monarchs in 
Europe; and as for his Queen — no better 
praise can be given than to say that she was 
once our Princess Maud of England. 

Now we will go South and take a look at 
Court life in Rome, and at the ways and 
manners of the best Italian society. Rome 
is one of the meeting-places of the world* 
Was it not Kipling who said: u If one wants 
to meet a long-lost friend T sooner or later one 
comes across him at Port Said or at Charing 
Cross Station"? To these places he might 
have added the Ptncian Hill or the Piazza 
di Spagna. The season in Rome begins 

nine a glittering crowd may be seen mounting 
the splendid staircase of the Quirinal Palace. 
Room after room is then passed through 
until the central chamber is reached, which 
has a mass of gilding and is illuminated by 
electric light and by thousands of wax 
candles. After this comes a pause, and 
then, as the hour approaches, the dame 
d'honmur " sorts " the different nationalities. 
Also she arranges that the married couples 
should be received in one room and the 
single men in another This lady is, in fact, 
an Italian Oberhafmtisterin. At last a big 
door is flung open and the King and Queen 
make their appearance. Their Majesties walk 
about the rooms, and do not remain seated, 
as is the custom at Buckingham Palace. 

Their Maje&tits walk about instead o| remaining seated a: in kn^lrmd. 

about Christmas, and up to Lent there is a 
constant round of balls, parties, and cotillons. 
Trains arc not worn at the Italian Court, 
and neither feathers nor veils, but full 
evening dress is required, which must be of 
the smartest and freshest, as the light in 
the presence chamber is dazzling beyond 
description. Black gowns are barred, which 
fact is distinctly stated in the invitations. 
Ten o'clock is the hour named, and about 

Social life at Rome is divided into two 
camps — the Black and the White, The 
Black — or the mondo mer# f as it is termed — 
represents the clerical clique — cardinals, 
monsignori, and the immediate entourage of 

to the Papal Court, and the Embassies nnd 
"Legations accredited to the Vatican- The 

4 6 


The Grand Staircase, which provides for French Society a substitute lor the splendour and brilliancy of Royal Courts. 

"Whites" comprise the Court set, Govern- 
ment officials^ and the Embassies and 
Legations accredited to the Quirinal; also 
all the lively foreign element — English, 
"rench, Russian, and American* Needless 

to say, this social circle — rich, gay, and 
modern — is fkr arid away the most amusing. 

As [(WlJflfttitt^S^ Spanish Embassy 
is the H blackest " or all the Embassies, and 
an official reception at the Palazzo di Spagn^ 



makes a sight that once seen is never for- 
gotten. The footmen wear orange and red 
liveries, and the large and richly-furnished 
rooms form a superb background for the 
crowd of notable personages. These include 
cardinals in their robes; Knights of Malta, 
with crosses of gold and white enamel on 
their breasts ; many officials and diplomats 
decorated with stars and orders ; and — 
best of all — the beautiful, soft-voiced Roman 
matrons wearing the historic jewels that 
have been in their husbands' families for 
centuries. Cardinals are princes of the 
Church, and their evening dress is most 
sumptuous. A cardinal wears a scarlet 
mantle over a black cassock : on his head is 
a scarlet cap, and on his hands are red silk 
gloves. Around his neck is a long gold 
chain, from which hangs the pectoral cross, 
formed of pure gold and studded with 
amethysts. Outside the red glove, on the 
third finger of his right hand, he wears the 
episcopal ring, which has one big sapphire 
set in large diamonds. Cardinals in Rome 
are greatly honoured, and a special etiquette 
prevails when they go into society. Custom 
decrees that when a cardinal enters a room 
everyone should rise from his seat and 
remain standing until the prelate himself is 
seated. If a lady is presented to a cardinal 
she curtsies and waits to shake hands and 
to speak until he extends his own hand and 
opens the conversation. In fact, she treats 
him like Royalty. Then a lady must never 
wear a low-cut gown if the cardinal in 
question is a monk of a monastic order ; 
but if he is not, she may appear as usual — 
decoUetL Also, if the party is a ball qv 
theatricals, the business of the evening would 
not begin until the great prelate had taken 
his departure. The arrival and the departure 
of a cardinal are attended with much cere- 
mony. He is escorted upstairs by a troop of 
servants carrying lighted torches, and later 
on is conducted in the same solemn state to 
his splendid carriage. A presentation to the 
Pope is an honour desired by most cultured 
Englishwomen. This ceremonial, as may be 
guessed, is set about with many restrictions. 
On such an occasion the lady to be presented 
must be dressed in a gown made of some 
soft black material, and on her head must 
be worn a black lace mantilla. Jewels or any 
smart ornaments are entirely unsuited to the 
circumstances. Such rules as the above are 
obeyed irrespective of religion, as the old 
saying : " When at Rome do as the Romans 

do," is obeyed by even the most rigid 

We who travel are aware that a wide 
difference exists in social etiquette as prac- 
tised in London and on the Continent 
Card-leaving affords a good example. In a 
foreign city, if a lady leaves cards on another, 
the cards are returned next day, and not 
next week or next month as in London. 
And German, Russian, and Italian ladies 
cling with affection to their day at home, 
their jour, as they call it, and men attend 
these jours as a rule and not as an exception. 
In fact, not to call would be considered as a 
serious breach of good manners. Then on 
the Continent a man is expected to bow first 
to a lady, and not the lady to bow first to 
him, as is the ostensible rule in this country. 
And the rule of the road is different abroad : 
all vehicles met must be passed on the right, 
and not on the left as in England. 

Dinners do not hold the same pride of 
place on the Continent as they do in London; 
also the customs observed are different. 
Foreign hours are earlier, and a dinner is 
often at half-past seven or eight. Then a 
lady sits on the left of a man, and not on his 
right, as in London. Also ladies and men 
leave the dining-room together arm-in-arm, as 
they entered it ; but the men sometimes go 
away to smoke together for a while in another 

Healths are drunk only in champagne on 
the Continent. Then in the best society 
abroad it is not thought correct to talk only 
to one's neighbour at dinner. Conversation 
d deux is disapproved, and talk must be 
general, which tends to a sharpening of wits 
that proves most acceptable. Smart, high- 
necked, or demi-montant frocks are worn at 
dinners, and not decollete " gowns, as in this 
country. And the same style of dress, only 
with a hat or toque, is used by society women 
at theatres and restaurants ; but for balls and 
the opera low-necked gowns are worn, as in 
this country, and in Paris at such theatres as 
the Od£on, the Op^ra Comique, and the 
Theatre Fran<jais. 

The evolution of the girl has by no 
means proceeded at so rapid a pace in 
European countries as it has in Great Britain 
and America. A French, German, or Italian 
girl in the best set is still carefully guarded, 
first by governesses and afterwards by her 
mother or some other responsible chaperon. 
A great guif is still fixed between the life of 
girls in Engknd and on the Continent. 



Illustrated by W. R. S. Stott. 

UST as Colby Hunt turned 
into his own quiet, tree-lined 
street —district of pretty cot- 
tages — he suddenly stopped 
short. It was at the close of 
an autumn day. In the half- 
bare branches a chill wind 
svhispered sadly. About Colby's feet twirled 
crinkled brown leaves. Other leaves, crisp 
and tawny, struck against his face and crossed 
in front of his preoccupied eyes. Rays from 
an arc lamp snowed through the restless 
boughs and quivered upon the pavement. 

Colby's right hand— a big, gentle, warm, 
hairy hand— grasped the lapel of his coat. 
Its mate hung relaxed at his side. His head 
was slightly lifted and turned, his eyes and 
mouth faintly puckering. It was a rugged 
old face and a rugged old figure, The 
clothes were navy blue, and there were brass 
buttons on the sleeves. The big head was 
covered with a blunt-peaked cap, also navy- 
blue. The trousers were just a bit baggy, 
and the whole suit, though smartly brushed, 
showed long usage— seemed almost thread- 
bare* The shirt was of thick flannel, grey- 
green, relieved by a dash of scarlet at the 

Colby Hunt was the oldest fireman in the 
department, Nobody knew exactly how old 
he was : this was one of his jealously guarded 
secrets. But his hair, uncommonly bristly 
and dense, was nearly snowMvhite. Colby 
kept it cut almost to the scalp. "Otherwise," 
aid he to himself, " I should be a patriarch ; 
,nd what use would they have fqt a patriarch 

in the hook andladder company ? " Often 
there had been talk of retiring Colby on a 
pension, the commissioners debating the 
question officially. But none of them, nor 
any of his comrades t ever had ventured to 
speak of the matter to him, "After all," 
they would say, actually coming to grips with 
the subject, "it's only Colby's hair and skin 
that are old ! * 

Motionless there amid the spinning leaves, 
and in the trembling light, he certainly looked 
as if, met by a crucial test in the path of his 
hazardous duties, he would want a deal of 
beating. His face seemed chiselled out of a 
block of native decision — chiselled out with 
a chisel that had left its marks deep across 
his forehead and about his mouth. All his 
sturdy figure — there was at least six feet of it 
—appeared instinct with nervous energy ; yet 
not by any means did Colby look a boy. He 
looked quite sixty — looked as if he might be 
the father of a big family (as, indeed, he was), 
and might have a group of grandchildren (as, 
indeed, he had). 

Listening intently for a moment, he turned 
round and retraced his steps to the corner. 
It w T as as he thought: his name had been 
called from far down the intersecting street. 
A brother fireman was running after him 
from the hook -and ladder station, and Colby 
himself at once broke into a run. 


f * T frff) P?fl^ 'B IflVCfeS |"PF at ' on and w &nts to 
see you a minute before you go to supper," 

Colby shot an inquiring glance into Dan's 

eyes, dropped his head^ and walked back to 



the station silently. Chief Hubbard met 
him at the door and called him into a little 
side-room, where they sat down by a grate- 
fire. Assistant-Chief Arnold, slender and 
dark-eyed, was there, too, but he only nodded 
to Colby and smiled. 

"Chilly night, Colby," said Hubbard, 
filling his pipe. 

"So it is, chief; I s'pose we haven't long 
to wait for snow." 

"Snow?" echoed the officer, genially. 
" Makes me think of the fire at old Judge 
Adler's house that Christmas morning, when 
you slid off a gable-roof in a ton or two 
of it and fell twenty-eight feet into a 

"And it didn't hurt me a bit," laughed 
Colby. "But I remember a night-fire in 
snowy zero weather when I did suffer some, 
and you as well, chief. You weren't chief 
then ; you were a nozzle-mate of mine. 
Seven hours on end, wasn't it, we fought to 
keep the lumber-yard blaze from eating its 
way into the main part of town? The 
blowing snow and the cold, weren't they 
frightful? Ice all over the nozzle, and all over 
us, and all over everything — a skating-rink ! 
I forget just how long we were in hospital !" 

The chief's eyes shone and his rough face 

"It's a hard life, Colby." 

"It is; but it's about the only life I've 
known, and I like it. Do you know, chief, 
my father used to hope I'd be a lawyer? 
Idle dream ! I couldn't breathe in a law 
office. Action and God's air for me. Why, 
chief, when the horses are galloping, the 
gongs clanging, and the people rushing 
breathless through the streets — it's a time 
when the slowest pulse quickens and the 
oldest of us forgets his years ! " 

Hubbard cleared his throat, moved his 
heavy feet uneasily, and looked more steadily 
at the veteran hook-and-ladder man. 

" Colby, you know I like you." 

" I quite believe it, chief." 

" You know it. You're the best-loved man 
in the department. All of you that isn't 
honour is courage. By rights, you would be 
in my place to-night." 

" No, chief, no." 

"Yes, you would. Your education is 
exceptional. You know everything worth 
knowing about fire-fighting — know it by 
experience. What have you not done, and 
brilliantly done, in the service ? You'd have 
chief years ago but for your habitual 
; from promotion. You're a shining 
£of modest merit that has waited for 

its own in vain. Now — you've served the 
public long enough." 

Colby grew a little pale. 

41 You're too old to climb ladders, scale 
shaky walls, and battle with smoke and 

The white head sank ; the blue eyes sought 
the fire. 

" We propose to give you a thrice honour- 
able discharge, a good pension, and let you 
rest. What do you say to it ? " 

Colby's lips twitched. 

" I hadn't supposed I was so old as that," 
said he, slowly. " I really don't know, chief, 
what to say to it." 

He got up and turned away. 

" I'll think it over. Thank you ! Good 
night ! " 

" Don't take it so to heart, Colby : it's no 
calamity ; there are things about it /like." 

"And I, too, papa, decidedly. You're 
not old, and you are sl wonderful fireman. 
You've proved it scores of times, and Mr. 
Hubbard was quite right when he said you 
ought to have been chief years ago. But 
don't you worry, papa ! Will and Alfred and 
Tom and all the rest of us will stand by you 
and mother !"• 

Colby, gloomily thoughtful, was at the 
head of his table, eating his belated supper. 
On his right was his sweet-faced old wife in 
her silver-rimmed spectacles. On his left was 
Maggie, his baby, aged sixteen —the especial 
joy of his later life. The mother, genuinely 
concerned, was yrt perfectly calm. The 
daughter's cheeks were flushed and her eyes 
were flashing. 

" I s'pose they're right," said Colby, munch- 
ing his food, his eyes upon his plate. 

" Papa, the chiefs right ; youVe always too 
meek ! One can't be too meek in this world 
and get on ! " 

"That's not Christian, Magtjie," said the 
mother. e * * Blessed are the meek, for they 
shall inherit the earth.'" 

Maggie tossed her head. 

" Nobody can deny that I'm sixty or more," 
said Colby. " My oldest boy is engine-driver 
on the Empire Express, and everyone knows 
the company wouldn't have any youngster for 
that job. Besides, look at my grandchildren ! 
Haven't they been seen often enough scamper- 
ing into the hook-and-ladder station with their 
caps and aprons full of big, red apples for 
me ? |^|tf^,$^|^ Jfl^l^s spry as ever I was. 
I don't want any pension. I can't bear the 
thought of knocking off for good ! " 

" Well, papa," said Maggie, somewhat J 



'you re too old to ci.tmb ladders, scale shaky walls, AM) 


wearily* winding her arms about his neck, 
"I must go/" 


"Yes; we're working overtime at the big 
shop now. The holiday trade's in full swing. 
The whole staff will he on duty until eleven 
to- night. Ill come home by the half-past 
eleven car," 

Colby drew Maggie's head down until her 
hair hid his broad visage, 

11 Maggie, I'm mightily proud of my 
children — ten of them, all living, and not a 
had one in the lot. You, the baby, always 
have been our pet. As a child, you were 
perpetually under the weather, though you 
don't look it now ! I've pushed you for 
miles in your baby-carriage myself. Do you 
'emember ? Your eyes, looking up at me, 

exactly like your mother's 
■ — some pretty shade be- 
tween gold and brown. In 
spite of your ills, I've 
never known another babe 
that smiled so much. Who- 
ever else gets old, may the 
Ixjrd long keep our baby 
young ! " 

Maggie slipped a plump 
hand over her fathers 
mouth, i|uiekly kissed both 
her parents, and was 

" I must be off, too, 
mother," said Colby, wiping 
his lips, pushing back, and 
reaching for his cap. 

"Now, Colby, don't you 
worry to-night Remem- 
ber what the Psalmist says : 
1 1 have been young, and 
now am old ; yet have I 
not seen the righteous for- 
saken, nor his seed begging 

His pipe alight, Colby 
stepped out into the fresh 
night. Strong emotions 
rolled through his con- 
sciousness. He seemed to 
be losing his hold upon 
the simple feeling, the 
simple point of view, that 
had characterized his 
career. He felt just at the 
point where he ought to 
count more than he ever 
had counted before. For 
life to turn upon him like 
this, after he had worked so long and so 
loyally ; u looks like playing it low down/' 
he muttered, and a certain outraged majesty 
transformed his whole look and manner 

All the firemen except Dan had gone up 
to their bunks. Dan, on watch, was seated 
at a small round table, under a gaslight, 
playing solitaire. Brass-mounted harness 
yawned high on either side of the pole of the 
hook-and ladder truck. The big dapple- 
greys were champing their food directly in 
the rear. Tin: black cat was asleep on a 
straight-backed, wooden-bottomed chair. The 
old yellow station dog, Jack, was curled up 
on the bo'afdawlrfSPl^e card- player's feet. 

"G(lWl.^iJttW[KI£Td Colby, knocking 

theashesftom his pipe and mounting the stairs. 

" Won't have a game before turning in ? " 



"Not to-night." 

Quickly and curiously Dan looked after 
the towering figure. Certainly that was not 
Colby Hunt's familiar voice, and Dan had no 
recollection of so scant a formality in all the 
veteran's previous behaviour. 

Ten o'clock. 

Faintly, from afar, came the strokes of the 
giant bell in the court-house tower. 

Dan, dozing, was barely conscious of the 
sounds, when suddenly they seemed to grow 
infinitely louder. He sprang to his feet. 
The electric hammer just above his head was 
falling with a measured resonance upon the 
alarm gong. The automatic doors at the rear 
had swung open, and the dapple-greys were 
lumbering to their places under the elevated 

Already Colby Hunt had slipped into his 
service boots and was rapidly buckling them 
about his thighs. To right and left his com- 
rades were a-leap. All the station hummed 
with the noise of swift preparation— a pon- 
derous machine abruptly thrown into strenu- 
ous motion. As he hastened Colby was 
counting the strokes of the electric hammer. 
He knew the location of every alarm-box in 
the city. For example, Fourteen was the dis- 
tillery district ; Ten, the lumber yards ; Forty- 
one, the elevator quarter; Ninety-six, the 
railway warehouses ; Twenty-seven, the main 
business section ; Thirty-three, the quays and 
river shipping ; Seventy two, the manufactur- 
ing area. 

"One— two ! One — two — three — four — 
five— six — seven ! " 

Twenty-seven ! 

Colby thrust the last button into place, 
sprang across the sleeping-room, and shot 
down the exit- pole into the hook-and-ladder 
hall. Men had gone before him, men were 
swiftly following, some throwing on their 
waterproofs, some reaching for their helmets. 
The horses stood beneath the harness, 
champing their bits, eyes and nostrils dilated, 
feet beating a rumbling tattoo. The harness 
fell. The hames clicked round the collars. 
The great front doors swung outward, and 
the long, red truck, lined, on either side with 
belmeted men, thundered into the street, 
hoofs and wheels smiting fire. 

Straight north along the radiant boulevard 
sped those mettled runners. So flat did they 
lie to their work, so smoothly did they fly, 
that twin-spheres might almost have rested 
in the dimples of their backs. Colby Hunt, 
on the seat by the driver's side, under his 
feet the warning-bell pouring its clangour 

into the night, leaned sharply forward, gazing 
dead ahead, his white hair showing with great 
distinctness beneath the black gloss of his 
helmet. At the Four's reel-house a dying 
note echoed through vacant chambers — the 
last stroke of the second alarm. At the 
Two's engine-house, a hundred yards farther 
on, rang out a fresh staccato. Colby glanced 
at his comrades, his comrades at him. In 
quick succession, three alarms — not a school- 
boy in the city but could have told the 
meaning of that. 

And from Twenty-seven ! 

Twenty-seven was the heart of the mer- 
cantile quarter. There were the towering, 
gleaming buildings. There were the holiday 
throngs, elbowing, jostling, parcel - laden, 
happy, crowding the streets, packing the 
shops — men, women, and children in 
mighty, eddying pools, and in endless, turgid 
streams. There, too, were the sales-people 
— thousands of them— of both sexes, young 
and old, patient, weary, working overtime. 
Somewhere in that vast, unresting agglomera- 
tion — already the onrushing hook-and-ladder 
men caught its muffled roar — was the bright, 
particular star of Colby Hunt's domestic 
firmament — Maggie, his baby. Maggie had 
said she would come home on the half-past 
eleven car, and now it was a few minutes past 
ten. In the flitting light Colby's corrugated 
face was like an iron mask. 

Swinging out of the boulevard into the 
chief shopping thoroughfare, the driver of 
the hook-and-ladder truck brought his team, 
rearing, to a full stop. From wall to wall 
the street was choked with people, and the 
air was a-wave with shrill babble, hoarse 
cries, and sobbing. Here and there a mm 
gesticulated and cursed, a woman screamed 
and hurled herself im potently against the 
human embargo. Other persons, except 
when moved by the swaying of the mass, 
stood still, white and mute. Scores of police 
— shouting, pulling people back, pressing 
them on, crushing them to either side — 
vainly strove to make a passage through the 
crowd. In an ecstasy of perturbation, the 
hook-and-ladder horses were yet on their hind 
legs, when every light — the arc-lamps in the 
street, the luminous globes in the shops — 
suddenly failed. With the failure, with the 
engulfing gloom, fell a hush as brief as it was 
instant and profound. 

Ahead and upward appeared a tongue-like 

object. lilAvjWg | fRf?FJ^PT , ( street > it seemed 
thirstily, pantingly, to lick up the darkness. 
Where the darkness had been, bold in the 
lighted space shone a row of huge gilt letters 



— " Moultrie's." Moultrie's was a household 
word, a miracle wrought by wit, toil, and 
time, Moultrie's was Fast, varied, brilliant, 
enchanting, Moultrie's was housed in one 
of the noblest commercial structures of the 
world — a trade-palace, big and beautiful 
beyond the jxalaces of reverie. And Moul- 
trie's was wondrously equipped for security 
— fire-buckets, hose, chemical extinguishers at 
every turn* Further, Moultrie's had its own 
trained fire brigade. Still further, Moultrie's 
was jtrtpnmf. Yet a red tongue was licking 
up the darkness, and those great gilt letters 
were saying : — 

" Moultrie's is 
on fire!" 

Colby Hunt's 
prophetic soul 
had not played 
him false. At 
i he first stroke 
of the electric 
hammer, down 
;it the hook -and- 
ladder station, 
he had said to 


trie's ! ?t 

this was because, 
when the ham- 
mer fell, he was 
dream i n g of 
Maggie, and 
Maggie worked 
on a high floor 
of that h Ig h 
building of Moul- 
trie's. At any 
nte, the idea was 
now an irresolv- 
able fact before 
him. Other red 
tongues, as if 
desert - parched, 
were licking up 
the darkness, 
The ruby glare 
was everywhere 
—on the sky, on 
the sign - strewn 
walls, on the 
wires and the 
poles and the 
people, Moultrie's main entrance doors were 
flung wide, and a mixed throng was storming 
through them. The broad, plate glass windows 
also were open— crashed outward — and the 
frantic exodus was packing the crowd in 
the street as in a hydraulic press. Scores of 

" NOW he Was on ins keet, striding forward, reeling, 

figures were appearing upon the fire-escapes, 
moving quickly, but dazedly, tike sleep- 
walkers fleeing from some stupefying vision. 

One sweeping glance and Colby Hunt had 
noted all — the seat of the fire, the fire's 
demoniac fierceness, the immovable pack in 
the street, the congested fire-escapes. More- 
over, high up, he had caught sight of a line 
of distracted, ashen faces— girls' faces — in 
groups- Each group was at a window, lean- 
ing over the sill, staring into the lurid gulf 
below. The girls were not crying, not 
making a sound — just clinging closely to one 

another and 
staring down 
numbly. Colby's 
children— es[>eci- 
ally Maggie- 
were more than 
rooted in his 
being ; on its 
tenderer side, 
they were his 
being. Was the 
enemy he had 
fought all his life 
about to make 
the first gap in 
this love -linked 
company ? But 
for a piercing 
gleam, Colby's 
blue eyes were 
lost in the jungle 
of his eyebrows 
and his wrinkles* 
As to his clean- 
shaven lips, one 
would have said 
they never had 
been cast for 
speech, but for 

Two panther- 
like bounds, and 
Colby, just 
touching the 
pavement, was 
on the shoulders 
massed before 
the hook - and - 
ladder horses. 
With a startled outcry the men beneath him 
swayed, staggered, and struggled apart. But 
Colby hud not paused; he had plunged 
despera^^^ on all fours. 

Now he was on his feet, striding forward, 
reeling. Now he was down again, wriggling 



and floundering like a great fish stranded. 
Once more he was up, stepping upon a back, 
a shoulder, a hatied head. From under his 
boots rose grating cries — cries of alarm, rage, 
pain — as metal shrieks when wheels crash 
over it. Colby seemed battling with twisting, 
rolling, dipping logs in a whirlpool. But 
finally he was upright, balanced, speeding 
unchecked, his footing bending as thin ice 
bends beneath a skater's feet ! Out of the 
red-lit night crashed a weld of exultant voices ; 
a helmeted figure had cleared the blockade ! 

But what of this ? 

What could human power avail in such a 
strait ? 

Growing warmth on his cheeks, low 
thunder in his ears, Colby found himself 
among clattering hoofs and quivering flanks. 
Mounted police were at close quarters with 
the multitude. Before their merciless charges 
the mass had begun to move. People were 
still streaming down the fire-escapes. Engines, 
hose-carts, and chemical wagons were crowd- 
ing up. Dodging, edging, fighting, Colby 
reached the doors of Moultrie's. Lines of 
hose, half-buried in charred, ill-smelling slush, 
lay across the vacant thresholds. Split by 
fleeing feet, here and there the hose emitted 
thin, beaded streams. Even as Colby looked, 
from within came a heavy report, followed by 
a blinding outrush of smoke and embers. 
Firemen burst forth headlong. They had 
abandoned their hose-lines, lost their helmets, 
were blistered, singed, and covered with 
ashes. In a vague medley of cries Colby 
made out : " A wall has fallen — The masonry 
of the domed rotunda is down — Ten firemen 
are buried ! " Smudged and bleeding,- 
Assistant-Chief Arnold reeled through the 
blackened doorway. 

*' Colby " — Arnold's voice sounded like the 
rustle of dry husks — " I'm — hurt, and Chief 
— Hubbard's— dead!" 

Colby felt as if a dagger had pierced his 
vitals. Chief Hubbard dead, Assistant-Chief 
Arnold fainting at his feet, and the centre 
of Moultrie's becoming a roaring furnace ! 
Moreover, the flames were running out right 
and left, the buildings across the street were 
heating, fiery particles were reaching the 
upper air — the city was menaced ! If the 
lower floors of Moultrie's were clear of 
people, on the higher floors were the 
working girls ; their faces were still at the 
windows. Easing Arnold to the pavement, 
Colby swung round. The blockade had 
been broken, the crowd beaten back and 
roped away at either end. Except that 
early* ill-fated company, the entire fire 

department was there— every wheel, every 
foot of hose, every ladder, every man. 
Imposing indeed was the array, but Colby 
stood aghast. Not a reel was turning, not a 
ladder rising, not a muscle moving — con- 
sternation was king ! 

Hiss and crackle and roar, and then such 
a cry as breaks from a bugle's throat in the 
crisis of a battle. 

11 Man the k extensions' I " 

The machine - laddermen jumped like 
galvanometric needles. 

"The 'scalers' to those high windows!" 

Silhouetted against the glare behind him, 
Colby Hunt faced the fire-fighters massed in 
the street. His head was back, his brows 
lifted, his eyes blazing, his hands raised and 
spread in the air. 

" Volunteers to the front!" 

Twenty men sprang forward. 

"Bring out your comrades — if you can I " 

Rattle of hand-ladders, grind of machinery, 
and the street bristling like a mast-studded 

"Reels One and Two to the rear, and the 
Four's laddermen to their support! Chemical 
Six to the east, Chemical Seven to the west ! 
Reels Three and Four to the buildings oppo- 
site ! Reels Six and Eight to the right, Reels 
Ten and Twelve to the left 1 Moultrie's is 
doomed ; look to the city ! " 

Into this turbulent conflux — this single 
big-issue moment — Colby's life-zeal as a fire- 
man, his long experience with every unit of 
the service, poured its resistless resultant. 
Bit by bit, falling like thunderbolts, his com- 
mands crumbled away the deadlock in the 
street. More rapidly than it can be por- 
trayed, bewildered inaction quickened and 
differentiated into bewildering action. One 
extension-ladder after another shot its swaying 
length through the gathering smoke. From 
window to window leapt the scaling-ladders 
until the topmost storeys were compassed. 
Up and down, with astounding agility, moved 
tight-lipped firemen, bringing out the half- 
suffocated, the helpless ones. Patiently the 
others were waiting. Countless streams were 
storming and hissing, filling the air with 
spray, clustered drops, and broken shafts of 
water. The roadway was a ruffled, glisten- 
ing sheet, and the gutters gurgled with a 
blackened flood. 

Stationary only long enough to shout out 
the bold lines of his policy, Colby had 
become a remorseless executive. His grey 
head seemed to be everywhere ; and every- 
where — encouraging, counselling, command- 
ing — his deep cry threw skill, tenacity, and ^ 



desperate valour into the conflict. The his- 
torical Colby Hunt was not there; in his 
person was a pale, grim, imperious man, 
keen-sighted, coldly methodical, yet in every 
artery a-throb with passionate purpose. Scan 
the huge, dishevelled figure ! His helmet is 
thrust back, seared and battered ; his water- 
proofs are burnt and torn ; his face and 
hands are peeling. And all the while a dull 
agony gnaws at his heart. " Tom, seen 
Maggie ? " " Frank, know whether my girl 
is out ? " " Andy, was Maggie with that 
lot ? " "I say, Dan, any word of Maggie ? " 
And always the answer was the same. The 
crowd was so large, the rush so terrific, the 
confusion so great that nobody could be 
sure ; certainly nobody had seen the veteran's 

On a sudden Colby appeared, moving 
rapidly up an extension-ladder. A sponge 
was over his mouth and nose, and at his 
heels were other firemen similarly equipped. 
The fire-escapes were empty ; the white-hot 
iron, at the lower floors, was writhing into 
wild contortions. Scorching haze blinded 
Colby to any faces that might remain at 
the windows. Half-way up, the ladder 
burnt his hands; apparently, anything done 
must be done almost in a moment. 
Intermittently visible to the crowds below 
and on neighbouring roofs, the climbers 
reached the front of the building, mounted 
two scaling-ladders, and entered the top 
storey. Flames were roaring up stairways 
and lift-chutes, producing a choking whirl. 
At the first step Colby touched the fallen 
figure of a girl. He caught her up, glanced 
at her face, and passed her back. So a 
second, a third, a dozen. Hands out- 
stretched, from room to room he groped and 
stumbled, crossing and recrossing his tor- 
tuous tracks. So painful were seeing and 
breathing that every yard of the way was a 
battle. Often Colby's followers lost sight of 
him entirely, but ever ahead — through the 
gloom, above the uproar — rang out his poig- 
nantly-emotional call, " Maggie ! Maggie ! 
Maggie ! " 

" Colby!" 

Dan had seized the old fireman about the 
waist and was violently hauling him back. 

" Quick, Colby; the ladders are firing 
half-way down." 

" Dan," said the veteran, going doggedly, 
" no trace of her ? " 

" No ; but she must be out. I think 
everybody's out. All the girls would've fled 
o this floor, and we've been over it from end 
o end." 

In a twinkling the two firemen, last of the 
rescue party, dropped down the " scalers," 
and flashed along the smoking extension- 
ladder to the ground. As Colby's feet 
touched the pavement he heard his name 
anxiously shouted, and saw a fireman with a 
blistered and troubled face rushing towards 
him, pushing his comrades aside as he ran. 
The man spoke with difficulty, yet rapidly. 

"Maggie's in the far corner, on the next- 
to-the-top floor. I found her there with two 
other girls, all huddled into the window. 
Maggie told me to take the others first, sayin' 
she was a fireman's daughter. Cornin' down 
with the second girl, my ladder caught fire 
above me, and the tipper half burnt off and 
fell into the street." 

All at once the glare-lit multitude saw the 
hook-and-ladder horses start at a mad gallop 
for the corner of the blazing skeleton of 
Moultrie's. There, the wagon brought to a 
quick stand, the main ladder rose until it 
loomed high in the middle of the street, its 
polished rungs at right angles with the faces 
of the opposing buildings. It did not stand 
quite perpendicularly ; the angle was some 
eighty degrees. Up this ladder hurried a 
grey-headed fireman, climbing with all his 
strength. About one of his shoulders hung 
a coil of life-line, its gleaming metal clasp 
dangling as he climbed. White and calm, 
bent on one last desperate effort to save his 
child, Colby Hunt paused at the ladder's 
giddy point and glanced upward. 


" Papa ! " 

"Are you all right?" 

" Yes ; but hurry, papa ! " 

" My girl, I dare not venture close with 
the ladder; the heat from the lower floors 
would fire it like a match. Stand aside a 

Once, twice, he threw, and missed, the 
metal clasp swinging back beneath the ladder. 
The third throw, the life - line pierced the 
window as a rocket threads the rigging of a 
stricken ship. 

"Now, Maggie, make the rope fast about 
your waist ; hold hard with both hands ; 
have no fear ! " 

Rigid and dumb, the spectators saw the 
girl place her feet out of the window, and sit 
for a moment on the sill. 

" I'm ready, papa !" 

"Steady, my child!" 

Therej^ji§^^pkii^|TOpe leapt taut, the 
ladder dipped and swayed like the tip of a 
tall pine struck by a hurricane blast. Who 
shall say how many thousands of faces caught 






the hue of marble — how many thousands or 
hearts jumped, and stopped ? To his tossing 
spar Colby clung like a grizzled gale- fighter 
on a top-gallant mast Full width of the 
tfreet swun^ the pendent figure. At the 

end of theQhqhjsal fetching, through the 
shifting sifl4iMAhH-. WHtf BiSffil>se of the girl's 

face, the crowd was astonished and awed 
to perceive that, while deathly pale, it was 
resolute, croud, and unafraid. Bart swenr 



l he figure, then to and frOj like the pendulum 
of a clock ! The movements shortening, Lap 
by lap Colby drew up the life-line; and at 
last, at that long ladder's dizzy tip, in the silver- 
ing glory of those vast ruins, the people saw 
—as many as could see — that veteran fireman 
with his baby secure in his great right arm ! 

Again Colby Hunt's quiet* tree-lined street, 
with the tremulous light, the twirling leaves, 
and the chill wind whispering sadly. 

" Maggie, haw are you ? " 

The girl's hair lay in golden-brown profusion 

'TTIKY ail ulnt over it, 

upon her pillow, If pale, she was strikingly 
pretty, in her snowy nightdress, with its 
single blue ribbon worked in and out at the 
yoke. She smiled, and pressed her father's 
big head to her heart, her tightly-compressed 
lashes quivering. 

u Tve j n ^t come from the hospital," said 
Colby, turning to his wife. u Arnold and the 
others are going on welt. There's to be a 

tremendous public funeral fur Hubbard and 
the men who died with him. Mother, with 
no sleep last night* and all day to day digging 
about the ruins of Moultrie's, I'm fagged and 
famished; but before I eat or sleep I must 
tell you and Maggie something*" 

Mrs. Hunt sat down, leaned on an elbow, 
and looked at her husband over her glasses, 

"At noon to-day I was called to the 
mayor's office- The fire commissioners and 
a lot of other men were there. The mayor 
made a speech in which he used many 
glowing words about how I saved some 
lives last night, and, as he 
put It, * turned back the 
tide of general disaster. 1 
Mother, for a while that 
ordeal was almost harder 
on me than the fire. I was 
standing bare headed, look- 
ing at the floor, and could 
feel the swent popping 
out on my forehead. But 
somehow I suddenly lost 
my sense of distress* The 
mayor's words entered 
right into me^ and I felt 
myself filling with 
self-confidence and 
power. And by and 
by, when the mayor 
told me what he 
wanted me to do, 
and asked would I 
doftj I said, without 
any hint of waver- 
ing, 'If you wish it, 
your honour.' A I do 
wish it,' said he, 
'and so do the com- 
missioners and the 
city,' And then the 
mayor gave me this. m 
Colby drew from 
his pocket a stiff, 
crackling sheet of paper, and unfolded 
it on the bed. They all bent over it. 
It bore the mayor's signature and the 
preat red seal of the municipality. 
It said, in effect, that that day upon 
the shoulders of Colby Hunt had fallen ihe 
mantle of the dead chief 

For some moments the silence was broken 
only by Colby's tired breathing. Then his 
proud (^j^jfe+^hfjw strangely bright and 

y°»#^! l l^ curiously :— 

Ana, Corby, did Jot* make a speech? 
" Oh, no, mother. All I said was — 'God 
helping me, I II be a good chief/ * 


By BART KENNEDY. IlW™t e J t y H. SanJW. 

HE circus made its way 
through the streets of Colum- 
bus, Ohio, heralded with the 
loud and strident blowing of 
instruments of brass and the 
thumping of drums. The 
usual procession was being 
made through the town to awaken the interest 
of the people. All sorts of weird and curious 
and ferocious animals passed along. Sleepy 
and submissive-looking lions were trundled 
ignominiously in a latticed cart. Elephants 
marched in the procession after the gliding, 
lumbering, noiseless movement peculiar to 
elephants. They went along like vast, amor- 
phous, silent, drunken sailors. Going with a 
lumbering, lurching roll And then there 
came a camel which did not seem to be 



very much at home. And there were bears 
and zebras and other strange circus animals 
which I could not recognize. In between 
the animals and the slowly lumbering carts 
rode, or walked, the acrobats. Here the 
clown came riding backwards on a donkey. 
He had the face of a sad philosopher 
rather than the face of a humorist And 
here was a well-set-up, compactly built young 
man who might have been a prize-fighter 
but for the lack of the hard look that 
prize-fighters wear. The ring-master and 
the grooms marched past in top- booted 
glory. Beautiful ladies, bespangled and glitter- 
ing, were also in the procession, smiling down 
into the crowd. They rode in the centre of 
the procession in a wonderful golden car. 
And at the end of the procession there fol- 
lowed the toughest-looking mob I ever laid 
eyes on. They were the canvas-men, and 
I, alas, was destined to become for awhile 
one of them, 

I was navvying in Columbus at the 
time, and a few days before the day of 
the procession I had taken what I con- 
sidered to be a well- earned 
rest. Though physically 
suited for the severest kind 
of labour, a little of it 
always went a long way 
with me. 

I followed behind the 

tough-looking mob at the 

end of the procession with 

vague and ambitious 

thoughts in my head. It 

occurred to me that I 

would like to belong to this 

glorious circus, 1 might, 

perhaps, get work looking 

after the lions. They 

looked submissive and 

downcast enough to eat 

from one's hand. Or I 

might become the clown, 

I thought The present 

clown t who was riding on 

a donkey, seemed to my 

eye too much of a pessh 

mist to be really funny. 

It struck me that at last I was 

approaching the career for which 

[i^ty^v^l^ed me. To travel 

with a circus ! I would like it 

above all things in the world. 



I might as well add that at the time I did 
not have a cent in my pocket, and that I had 
eaten nothing since the middle of the day 
before. This abstinence from food, com- 
bined with the Inspiring sound of the brass 
and the thumping of the drums and the 
sight of the process Ion, may have stimulated 
my imagination. Anyhow, I plodded along 
valorously with the tough-looking mob who 
followed in the rear. 

The procession had now got outside the 
town on to a great field. It was stopping 

been a sailor made me feel an easy confidence 
as to my ability to do anything in connection 
with ropes and canvas. 

In a moment I was working away with 
the tough-looking gang getting up the canvas 
for the big tent, I was hauling and pulling 
away on ropes, just as I would aboard a ship 
that was shortening sail. It was a some- 
what rude commencement for the realizing 
of my ambition to become a person of 
importance in the gilded world of the circus. 
But it was a commencement. What was to 


and beginning to arrange itself around* The 
elephants began to trumpet, and the camel- 
that did not seem to be quite at home — - 
squatted suddenly down, And here occurred 
what I thought at the time to be the chance 
of my life, A big, hector ing-looking man 
with a red face came up to me and asked me 
if I wanted a job as a canvas-man. His 
voice was hoarse and hard and very nasal, 
but to me it sounded as sweet music* I 
was actually being asked if I would belong 
to this circus ! I had but a dim notion of 
what the duties of a canvas-man might be. 
It seemed to me that it must be a sort of 
dry-land sailoring, and the fact of my having 

follow neither I nor any other man could 
tell. And I felt satisfied and happy as I 
bore with my whole weight upon the many 
and various ropes, The man with the red 
face and the hoarse, loud, nasal voice told 
me that I could travel with them for the 
whole season — and most likely for the season 
after. If I was round i The terms were 
eighteen dollars a month and board. 

Board I After an hour's work I began to 
wonder when the first instalment of that 
board would come to hand. The romance 
of the situation had v/orn off a little and 
the paHjPl.ytAhliiM^iERSJjTfe sharp with nie. 
Another hour passed at the hauling upon 



ropes, and the lugging of canvas, and the 
driving down of stakes. And I began to 
think that being a canvas-man was nearly as 
bad as navvying. But I worked on, hoping 
for the best, and at last there came the signal 
for dinner. We stopped work and I went 
off with the restof the gang to another part 
of the field. 

Here a most pleasing and appetizing sight 
met my eye. Seven or eight men were 
cooking at a kind of rough range built with 
stones. Wood fires were burning, and pots 
filled with soup and pots filled with potatoes 
were boiling. Huge pieces of meat were 
being roasted. The smell was most grateful 
to a man who had just accomplished a more 
than twenty-four hours' fast. 

We, the canvas-men, went into a tent near 
where the men were cooking — and waited. 
We were a somewhat motley lot. Men 
talked freely about the last time they had 
been in jail. I remember one very rough- 
looking man saying, when the soup came in, 
that it was far better soup than the soup he 
had had in prison a few days before. A man 
who wore a collar, and who appeared to give 
himself airs on the strength of it, was much 
shocked at the remark. He said something 
to the gentleman who had just spoken depre- 
ciatingly of the prison soup which caused 
that gentleman to pour forth a torrent of 
pointed and vivid remarks concerning the 
collared one's personal appearance and his 
probable antecedents. I thought there was 
going to be a fight. But peace prevailed. 

The dinner passed off well. Besides the 
soup there was as much as one could eat of 
good roast beef and potatoes and vegetables 
and bread. 

After dinner we fell to work like heroes. 
Towards evening we were ready for the first 

During the performance it was the duty of 
the canvas-men to stand on guard at the edge 
of the great tent, so as to prevent admiring 
boys, who wished to see the performance for 
nothing, from crawling under. I was sorry 
for this, for it was in my mind that I would 
be able to see the performance myself. 
Acting as a policeman hardly suited my 
temperament. And I fear that I allowed the 
management to be defrauded by letting 
several boys get in under the canvas through 
the cover of the darkness. 

If there is anything in the world that 
wounds one's feelings and makes one feel 
utterly out of it, it is standing outside a place 
whilst there is something interesting going on 
inside. This policeman largely helped to 

dispel the glamour that surrounded the 
pictures 1 had conceived during the day of 
my future life and chances with the circus. 

I could hear the inspiring yells of the 
dignified ring-master as he encouraged the 
performers in the ring. I could hear the 
roars of laughter from the audience, which I 
suppose were caused by the sallies of the 
sad-faced philosophic clown. And here was 
I cooling my heels outside the tent and 
allowing boys to evade the payment of their 
just dues. 

I was beginning to feel pessimistic when a 
man came along and addressed me civilly. 
He said what a fine night it was — to which I 
courteously agreed — and then he went on to 
say how glad he was that the circus had come 
to Columbus. I said that I was glad also. 
Graceful civilities passed for a little while, 
and then he offered me a drink of whisky 
from out a bottle. I took the bottle from him 
with many thanks — took a long, strong pull, 
and handed it back to him. And then, to 
my horror, he too dived under the canvas. 
I was so taken aback at his action that I 
did not try to stop him. 

Soon another man came along. This 
time I would be more cautious, I thought. 
I did not mind so much an odd boy passing 
in now and then, but with men it was a 
different thing. They were most likely well 
able to pay their way into the circus. 

This man also was civil, and curiously 
enough he also offered me drink out of a 
bottle. I accepted the drink, but at the 
same time I intended not to let him in. He 
took a base advantage of me, however. As 
my head was raised in the act of drinking he 
got in under the canvas. His action was a 
wrong one, but it was hardly my fault that 
he had defrauded the circus. He had simply 
taken advantage of a guard whose disposition 
was trustful. I felt deeply injured. Indeed, 
the only consolation I had was the reflection 
upon the fact that he had left his bottle 
behind him. There was not much in it, 

After about half an hour I thought I 
might as well follow the example of the boys 
and the two men. 1 had a longing to see 
the show. It was a pity to know of so much 
brilliance and pleasure going to waste as far 
as I was concerned, so I got in under the 
canvas myself. 

The effect of coming from the darkness 
into the light and the greater volume of 

sound Itl^A^WSffl-VEffSfT^ 5 a bit dazed, but 
in a moment I was all right and taking in 
the show with the rest of them. The great 




from my fellow 

canvas-men were 

most interesting. 

Our sleeping 


was not what it 

might have been, 

but in this life 

there is little use 

in being a grum- 

hler. Either put 

up with a thing 

or come 

out in the 

open and 

fight about 

it. There 

are times 

when one 

must do 

as well as 

one can 

with what 

comes. We 

tent was crowded with men, women, and 
children who were thoroughly enjoying 
themselves. There in the ring was the clown 
who had ridden on the donkey during the 
procession. His face itself was enough to 
make one laugh, and his way of putting forth 
hoary and moss-covered jokes was irresistible. 
I was enjoying myself immensely when I 
heard a hoarse, harsh voice behind me, I 
turned. It was the red-faced man who had 
engaged me. He beckoned to me to follow 
him, and then he turned and stooped and 
got out under the canvas, When we were 
together in the open air he spoke to me in 
rather a strong way. But I explained every- 
thing satisfactorily. I told him that I had 
just followed a man who had rushed past 
me. I had lost sight of him and was looking 
for him in the audience when he— the man 
with the hoarse, harsh voice to whom I was 
now talking— appeared, I don't know if he 
accepted my statement. But he passed on, 
after warning me not to get under the canvas 

The next day things were a little easier. 
The circus was to stay in Columbus for three 
days, and there was little work to do with 
the ropes and canvas after the first day. I 
began to think now that my first impressions 
of life with a circus were fairly correct. At 
the worst the life itself was much better than 
the life one lived while navvying. The work 
was hard while it lasted, but there was no 
monotony about it, And the yarns I heard 

were given 
a blanket apiece and a small straw-stuffed 
pillow, and we slept on the bare ground 
under a tent. 

The last night, however, of our stay in 
Columbus was a bit hard. We had to strike 
everything — that is, to take down everything, 
and we were kept hard at it, handling ropes 
and stakes and canvas, till daylight the next 
morning. Then, after a hasty breakfast, we 
loaded everything into the carts and went off 
to the railway station. In a few hours we 
were in the next town and at it as hard as we 
could putting up the tents. That day was a 
hard day. 

We canvas- men never had anything to do 
with the animals. They were looked after by 
the animal-men. These animal-men also 
helped to run the side-shows — minor per- 
formances which were kept going whilst the 
principal performance was going on under 
the great tent. 

During the day the acrobats rehearsed. 
It was necessary for them to keep their joints 
in working order. They were for ever running 
up planks and throwing somersaults and 
double somersaults from off spring-boards. 
They were a curious lot of people, these 
acrobats. Whilst they were, in a sense, 
people of the stage they were in no way like 
actors. Their manners were more simple 
and direct than the manners of actors. They 
were Dtrante^ part but their 

own, and wft'd iMcte 'rio attempt to assume 
any other personality than their awn* TUey 



oould dc a certain thing well, and they 
showed the consciousness of being able to 
do it. They were, perhaps, in their manner 
and their general character, more nearly 
allied to professional athletes than to actors. 
They had the self-assured air of those who 
perform feats while people are looking on. 

One day a lion broke loose and a hunt 
was got up- All the circus people looked 
upon the incident simply as a piece of excite- 
ment There was no fear shown by any of 
them* They knew that the lions were but 
meek and submissive beasts who had lost 
all their natural force of character. 

At that time we were in the neighbourhood 
of a place called Steuben vi lie, and it some- 
how got out in the local Press about the 
lion's dash for freedom. The people round 
the neighbourhood were terrified — much to 
our amusement* They did not know the 
Uons as we knew them, 

I joined in the hunt along with the rest of 
the canvas-men. But 1 am sorry to have to 
relate that it was a tame and uns tart ling 
affair, We found him sheltering under a 
hedge. He had committed no depredation 
—not even to the extent of killing a sheep. 
He looked as if he were longing to come 
home again to his friends in the circus, I 
suppose he 
must have nr 
been hungry. 

All that the 
keeper did 
was to go up 
to him and 
drive him 
with a whip 
into a cart 
which we 
backed up 
close to him. 
It went to the 
heart to see 
such a sub- 
missive king 
of beasts. 
Other captive 
lions may 
have per- 
deeds when 
they broke 
out on a ram- 
page, but our 
lion was evi- 
dently a lion 
with a respect- 

able conscience. All that he was good for was 
to leap through rings at the word of command. 

After I had been with the circus for about 
three weeks the romance of the life began to 
wear off, I began to realize that there was 
but little basis for my dreams of fame as a 
circus performer, At the outset I was hazy 
in my mind as to what I was going to do or 
how I was going to get on after I had been 
promoted from being a canvas-man- And 
now my mind was in a thicker haze than 
ever. And what was more, I did not quite 
see how I was even to be promoted from 
being a canvas- man, I could see that 
there was neither an opening for me as 
lion- tamer nor a career for me as a clown. 
And as far as an acrobat was concerned I 
had not the special bodily training. I had 
not been caught young enough. In short, I 
was disenchanted with the life, and I deter- 
mined to seek my fortune afresh. 

So the next morning I approached the man 
with the hoarse, nasal voice as to the getting 
of the money that was due to me. He was a 
good sort, even though his manner was hec- 
toring, and after a little talk he got it for me 
from the manager of the circus. The amount 
was fourteen dollars and a half. Armed with 
this I went forth on my way from the circus. 

**HB IXttKRD AS l\f Hti were: longing to come home again. 


Illustrated by Gilbert Holiday. 

NYONE who knows anything 
at all about administration is 
aware that there is always a 
power behind a throne, and 
that wherever a so-called 
strong man shows himself 
there is invariably a stronger 
in the background who takes the kicks and 
administers the knock-down blows. This 
sticks out of every history that was ever 
written. Even Richelieu had his ante damnee. 
There was never a ruler without one. And 
as for your mere commonplace statesman, 
who is usually three fourths windbag and 
one-fourth figure-head, his strong men are the 
silent, well-dressed, imperturbable permanent 
officials who bring his words and deeds into 
the semblance of consonance and spend their 
lives from eleven to five in pulling him out 
of the burning fiery furnace built up of pro- 
mises that ought never to have been made. 

Trevannion — Trevannion of the Treasury — 
was a case in point. He had been the ante 
damnee of every Minister for twenty years. 
Chancellors, aglow with highfalutin ideas 
for new taxation, might suggest and urge. 
Trevannion would hear and smile and give 
way just as far as it pleasured him to do. 
The Chancellors would rage and insinuate. 

They would talk about 
mandarins and the sheer 
abiding impossibility of 
getting any public servant 
to move with the times. 
Then, secure in the splen- 
did practical knowledge 
that was his, Trevannion 
would pour cold water 
on their vote - catching 
schemes. And against a 
really strong man the fury 
and ignorance of lesser 
minds spent themselves 
in vain. Trevannion was 
a great national asset. He 
had been, more than once, 
the saviour of his country. 
He was the power behind 
the Budget. In a word, 
he was the Budget itself. 

His history — like the 
history of most men who 
get to the top nowadays — had been one 
continuous fight. He had begun as a pupil 
teacher in a Church school in a little Cornish 
town. He had passed examination after 
examination till he became a minor mandarin 
at St. Martin's-le-Grand. That would have 
satisfied most men of Trevannion's up- 
bringing. But it was not enough for him. 
Power was his fetish, and he meant to be 
power's high priest. He sat again, this time 
for the stiffest examination of all. He passed 
at the top of the Indian Civil, beating the 
best University men of the year. He had 
the choice of going to India or of taking an 
appointment at the Treasury. He accepted 
the latter. In fifteen years he had outstripped 
all his contemporaries. He had been called 
to the Bar. He had letters after his name. 
He had become an authority upon economics. 
He had written books that were textbooks 
still. And then, these twenty years, he had 
been at the back of the Budget, for all that 
the man in the street had hardly heard his 

To-day he was sitting at the Treasury in 
his comfortable, carpeted, book-lined room. 
His dB^|i^|||:h9^t-^]block with papers, 
red-ribboned, docketed, and filed. Beyond 
his desk there was a great leather-topped 



table. It was high -heaped with black 
despatch -boxes, locked and sealed, with 
yellow "E.R." medallioned pouches, with 
bundles of cardboard -cased minutes and 
scheduled, typewritten lists. He was putting 
the final touches to the Budget — the last 
upon which he would ever work. For even 
Trevannions are mortal and must retire at 
sixty-five. The knowledge of his imminent 
going was with him as he worked. Its horror 
never left him now. It sat upon his still 
broad shoulders like some undislodgeable 
ancient of the sea. Not even an assured 
knighthood was any comfort. To him, the 
bureaucrat, the Treasury was, quite simply, 

At last the all - obsessing, ever-present 
horror sapped the tremendous power of 
application which had brought him to the 
top. He put down his pen, leaned back, 
and began to think. He looked round the 
room in which he had worked so long. The 
blood in his veins had not wholly turned to 
water; his heart still held affections. The 
very carpet and furniture were dear. In two 
months they would be his successor's, and 
he, Trevannion, would be a thing of the 
past— a deadhead, forgotten among men. 
What was he going to do? How was he 
going to occupy all that was left to him of 
life? He could write more books. But that 
was not enough. It was power that he 
wanted— power that he was going to lose. 
Nothing could replace it, once enjoyed. He 
who had ruthlessly crushed so many lesser 
men must now be crushed and ground in the 
slow, small-grinding, implacable mills of God. 
In two months all that he wanted in his life 
would be gone. 

Then, sudden and swift, a fierce hope 
leapt in his breast. There was his daughter 
Cicely. Perhaps she might hear reason at 
last. Perhaps she would marry Marchmont 
after all. Then he could go with them to 
Omofaga, of which colony Marchmont was 
Governor-designate ; could go with them and 
be the helper of their inexperience— the 
strong, resolute, hidden power behind their 
little throne. . . . 

For a minute his brain rioted with proud 
visions of future power. Then doubt crept 
in, ousting the new-born hope. Would 
Cicely do as he wished? 

Trevannion — it had been the one piece of 
sentimentality in all his life — had married for 
love. He had married, because it seemed to 
set the seal upon success, the daughter of the 
squire in his own Cornish village. Neither 
of them had had tastes in common ; neither 

of them had been in the first wild flush of 
youth. Perhaps the latter fact had weight 
with Cicely's mother. Anyway, she had 
married him, bringing with her a few 
hundreds a year and a host of homely, 
sporting tastes. London had killed her 
when Cicely was but seven years old. But 
the child took after her. Outdoor sports 
were in her blood. She, too, loathed London 
— hated the administrative caste in which 
her father moved. She was good at every 
game she touched. Horses she adored ; at 
tennis she was in the first flight. Above all 
she excelled at golf; she was a coming lady 
champion. And, because like calls to like, 
Trevannion feared that she would marry 
Roland Ormerod, scapegrace stockbroker, 
prince of polo-players, and amateur golf 
champion of the year. Already the two were 
inseparable. Trevannion, sitting there at the 
desk that would so soon know him no more, 
felt fear ripen into cruel certainty. His heart 
grew cold ; hope died in his breast. If 
Cicely married Roland it would be the end. 

The quick opening of the fronting door 
snatched him from his thoughts, restored his 
alertness, made him himself again. He sat 
up in his chair, his eyebrows heightened, his 
hard, cold, official manner came back. But 
the blue-uniformed, brass-buttoned, frock- 
coated messenger did not pass the threshold. 

" Miss Trevannion, sir," he said, and bowed 
low, holding the door wide. 

Cissie Trevannion came across the room, 
merry-eyed and trim-gowned, carrying a 
vast bagful of golf - clubs. Trevannion 
rose to his feet. Her coming gave him 
delight. The happy health of her made 
him young. Despite their terrible divergence 
of ideals she was the apple of his steel-grey 
eyes. He looked at her proudly, noting all 
that games could not spoil. There was never 
a hint of clumsiness in her carriage. Her 
walk was a delight ; her fine freshness a 
dream. She was very, very dear to Tre- 
vannion's heart. 

Cicely dropped her golf-bag on top of the 
despatch-boxes and the yellow, medallioned 
pouches that covered the great table in the 
middle of the room. Then she came across 
to her father, put her hands on his shoulders, 
and smiled up into his face. Trevannion, 
stooping, kissed her on both cheeks, stood 
looking at her, affectionate and proud. 

" Well, Cissie," he said — and his voice had 
the faintest and most shadowy of little breaks 
— 4< wellyjCji^^j^ 3R^/§1* : 51T , | :iave y° u enjoyed 

The girl faced him, frank-eyed, brown- 



cheeked, sun-kissed, the sheer embodiment vannion, with a dryness. He was thinking 

of physical and moral fitness. of other things. 

"Oh, perfectly splendid, daddy. Mrs. "Who else was there?" he questioned, 

Ewing was a dear. We had the rippingest suddenly, 
of tiroes." " Dolly Scott-Stokes and the Eli banks, and 




Trevannion laughed. a host of nice people that one met at the 

"I suppose you played golf from morning club-house. 11 
till night?" he asked* Her father nodded u Anyone else?** he 

Cicely nodded. "Sometimes three rounds asked, careif^.uyil from 
a day," she said "You see, it's such a "OH-JFRr^l^ 

wonderful course." ends. He couldn't get away for more* He 

" Er— so I understand," answered Tre- wants to make money, but times are so bad," 



Trevannion's eyes were on his daughter's — 
hard, searching, shrewd. She sustained their 
glance unflinchingly. Whether she blushed 
or not it was impossible to say. Her face 
befriended rather than betrayed. The fine 
uniform colour of sunburn told Trevannion 
nothing — nothing at all. 

"Then you're on your way home?" he 
asked at last. 

The girl shook her head. 

"Not a bit of it, daddy," she smiled. 
" I'm going down to Barnehurst for a game. 
We've got a mixed foursome— quite a good 
one. Dolly's coming, and Mr. Winterton, 
and Roland Ormerod hopes to be able to 
get down after lunch. So if I'm late for 
dinner you'll understand, daddy, won't 
you ? " 

Trevannion looked at her hard. 

"Yes, I shall understand," he said, after 
a pause. " Though, as a matter of fact, you 
needn't, in any case, hurry back. I'm working 
late. It's the Budget again — and I shall 
dine at the club. But, Cissie " 

"Yes, daddy." 

"I shall be particularly obliged if you'll 
make it convenient to be at home to-morrow 
night. I've asked Marchmont, you see " 

The girl pouted protesting lips. 

" That dull old thing ! " she cried. " Oh, 
how can you ? Of course, I'll make, since 
you ask it, a point of being there. But I 
can't talk to Mr. Marchmont. He's too 
clever. He frightens me." 

Her father shook his head, almost re- 

"Arthur Marchmont is a man of great 
promise," he said. "In fact, I think that 
he will go far. He is to have Omofaga as 
soon as Swanniston comes back. It's a small 
colony, I know, but it's a stepping-stone. 
And, Cissie " 

"Yes, father." 

" I rather think that Marchmont likes you 
— I mean, if you'll forgive a man's clumsy 
way of putting it, that he's fond of you. So 
don't hurt his feelings more than you can 
help. Promise me that." 

The girl opposed frank eyes to his searching 

"Of course I promise, daddy," she cried. 

4 But as for my thinking of Mr. Marchmont 

in the way you suggest he thinks of me y it's 

absolutely impossible. Still, I'll be as nice 

as I know how, to please you." 

As she spoke she put her hands on her 
father's shoulders again, so that, stooping 
down, he kissed her again on both her cheeks. 
Then she caught up her clubs from the table 

VaLxL— a 

where they lay. At the same moment her 
eye rested on a long, blue-foolscapped return. 
She stopped short, caught, as it seemed, by a 
swift idea. 

"I — I suppose you're very busy with the 
Budget just now. It must be a great worry." 

Trevannion shook a protesting head. 

"Not a bit of it," he laughed. "It's a 

labour of love, my dear. I " He pulled 

himself up with a jerk. The recollection that 
it was the last Budget of his life stabbed him 
to the heart. 

Cissy was half sitting on the table now. 
She swung a beautifully-polished brown shoe. 

"I travelled up to town with a lot of 
people to-day," she pursued. "They were 
all talking of the Budget. They said that 
there were going to be some wonderful new 
taxes. Amongst others, they were betting 
there would be another eightpence a pound 
on tobacco. They got quite heated over 
it. I wondered if they were right. I wouldn't 
believe it. I said the Government wouldn't 
be so unkind." 

The girl paused, made as if to speak, hesi- 
tated again, then looked full into her father's 

" Were they right, daddy ? " she demanded, 

Trevannion started as if someone had hit 
him. It was the first time in his life that 
his daughter had asked him about his day's 

"My dear," he cried— and there was real 
pain in his voice— " my dear, as if I could 
tell you ! " 

Then, even as he spoke, the truth flashed 
upon him — swift, convincing, sure. An over- 
whelming impulse had seized her. She was 
asking for a reason. She needed the know- 
ledge. She wanted to do someone a good 
turn. And that someone? Was there room 
for doubt ? It was Roland Ormerod whom 
she meant to help. And Ormerod, knowing 
the source of her information, would act upon 
it, past all doubt. Ormerod lay in the hollow 
of his — Trevannion's — hand. 

The half-spoken rebuke that had trembled 
upon Trevannion's lips died into nothingness. 
The thoughts chased each other across his 
brain. He walked to his desk, played with a 
pile of papers, gaining time to think. Cissie 
loved Ormerod. He was sure of it. He must 
act — act immediately ; must trust the end to 
justify the means. All his remaining years 
hung on this cast If Ormerod were broke 
Marchmont's chance would come. With it 
lay power — power that was Trevannion's 
breath of life. The thought drove him intc 



a devil's deed. He looked up for a second, a 
smile fugitive about his close ■ pressed lips* 
But when he lied his eyes were on his desk, 
end he was turning over the pages of a report 
11 You were right, 3} he said, suddenly ; " you 

"Good-bye, daddy!" she called. "I 
sha'n't hurry home as you're not coming back 
till late." 

And the door shut after her with a clang, 
as if, hurrying, she had pulled it to more 


were perfectly right, and there*s no secret 
about it. There will be no new tax on 
tobacco. When, in a week's time, the 
Budget comes out you will see how wrong 
the others were, and you will have the 
pleasure of telling them how much the 
Government has been misjudged/ 1 

Then Trevannion laughed and sat down. 

" en he glanced up again, Cissie was at the 

briskly than she meant* At the sound 
Trevannion rose from his chair again and 
began to pace the full spaciousness of his 
great room. Once he paused 

14 I'm sorry for Mr. Ormerod," he reflected 
aloud. "But, at the best, most of us are 
pawns in t-fiB^wfefPom 

AndlN&fMJAtbfcHVl^lTrtsumed his walk. 
Presently he rang the bell, The messenger 
entered, obsequious, sinuous of spine* 



"You rang, sir?" he said. 

U I did," replied Trevannion, grimly. 
11 Tell the librarian that I shall require the 
Finaticial Oracle brought to my room for the 
next three weeks. Mind that I find it on 
my table every morning when I come." 

The underling bowed. 

. " Very good, sir," he answered, and went 

Trevannion walked back to his chair, sat 
down, and began to work red-hot. 

For the next week Trevannion gave more 
time to the Financial Oracle than any man 
who has few investments needs to do. 
Things, he observed, were happening in 
tobacco. Shares were changing hands ; there 
was even a mild boom. Somebody was 
buying for all he was worth — perhaps more. 
Those who pretended to be in the know were 
predicting an increased tax of eightpence a 
pound, which would mean that tobacco would 
go down with a rush when the Budget was 
out Therefore the rash purchaser must be 
someone who knew better than the knowing 
— or thought he did. Trevannion smiled 
frequently. Also he chewed at his grey 
moustache. It was a way he had of dis- 
sembling his joy. He began to think that 
Marchmont had a chance after all. 

On the great night Trevannion sat, unre- 
garded and obscure, in a corner of the Dis- 
tinguished Strangers' Gallery. In spite of the 
fact that the Budget— his last great effort — 
was a trifle daring, he had given the Chan- 
cellor, whom he liked, some little rope ; he 
paid small attention to the Chancellor's 
speech, which, incidentally, he had helped 
to draft. He was, in fact, thinking about the 
Budget very little, but a great deal about 
Omofaga and of how that country should be 
run. All the same, he waited until the 
Chancellor announced that there would be 
an additional eightpence a pound on tobacco. 
Then he went home — Cissie was away again 
— ate a surprising meal of caviare sandwiches, 
drank a whisky and soda, and went to bed — 
to dream of Omofaga. The next morning 
he ran over to Dieppe for a little leave. He 
was justified in taking it, and he could, he 
felt, afford to wait. The Financial Oracle 
followed, day by day. 

Trevannion came back on a Monday night. 
On Tuesday he was in his place at the 
Treasury again. On his table the Oracle 
fronted him. It had been nicely aired by 
his messenger, for the weather was chilly and 
wet Trevannion opened it and looked at 
the share lists. As he expected, tobacco had 
gone down lower than ever. T hep. he turned 

to a column headed "Settling Day on the 
Stock Exchange." He read it, as editors 
have it, with interest. Amongst other items 
he observed the following. The expected had, 
in effect, happened. Mr. Roland Ormerod 
had "failed to comply with his bargains." In 
other words, that gentleman had been ham- 
mered. He was broke. Trevannion, who 
had broken him, shrugged his shoulders, put 
down the paper, stuck his pen between his 
lips, and ran through the papers on his 
desk. Amongst them was a discipline case. 
Trevannion, feeling at the top of his form, 
felt that morning in the mood for disciplining 
somebody. He rang the bell at his side. 

The messenger entered. 

"Tell Mr. Thornley I want him," said 

" Yes, sir," answered the messenger. He 
tiptoed out. A minute later the shorthand- 
clerk came in. 

"Sit down," instructed Trevannion, indi- 
cating a chair. " I want to dictate a minute 
upon Fothergill's case." 

As he spoke he glanced at the pile of 
papers before him. They related to a clerk 
in his own branch who had been guilty of 
late attendance, and, on one occasion, of 
denying it 

Trevannion cleared his throat and com- 
posed himself in his chair. " Now, Mr. 
Thornley," he said, " I am ready." And he 
began to dictate. 

" In view of the facts elicited in course of 
the investigation, there can be no room for 
doubt that Mr. Fothergill has long made a 
practice of coming to the office after his 
proper time. In addition to this, Mr. 
Fothergill has aggravated his offence by, on 
one occasion, telling what has been proved 
to be a deliberate falsehood. . . . Have you 
got that, Mr. Thornley ? " 

" Yes, sir." 

" Then strike out 'falsehood' and substitute 
'lie.' I dislike using two syllables when one 
will do. Now go on. In these circums " 

Trevannion broke off sharply. The 
messenger had reappeared. He came across 
to his chiefs desk with a letter in his hand. 

Trevannion took it, looked at the hand- 
writing, saw that it was his daughter's, opened 
the letter, and read. This was what it said : — 

My Dear Daddy, — I suppose it was very, very 
wrong of me to ask you about the tobacco tax, but I 
think it was far, far worse of you to tell me an untruth. 
I went straight to Poland with what I thought I knew, 
and he bought lobacco shires right up until the night 
of the Budget. I suppose you know that he has 
been — or will be— hammered. We, Roland and I, 
both know it. That is why we have decided to get 



married l>y special licence and to leave England 
before this is posted. With the money that canie lo 
me from mother 1 am going to buy some land in the 
Argentine and start a ranch. We are sailing from 
Southampton immediately after the wedding* which 
is to be at a registry office, and this will be posted to 
you a day or two after we are gone Good -bye, 
daddy. I am not sure that you haven't, after all, 
done the best and kindest thing. — Always your 
affectionate daughter, CiCUCY TREVANNION. 

Round Trevannion the room grew misty 
and swam. His head throbbed, the veins 
beat to bur sting- point, his heart galloped at 
incredible speed. He was in hell, and the 
end of his world had come, Hut he was 
game to the last. With a magnificent effort 
he turned to his clerk again. 

*' Let me see, where were we?" he asked 
— and it seemed to him that his voice was 
the voice of another man* u 0h, yes, I 
remember very well. 

lii In addition to this Mr. Fothergill has 
aggravated his offence by telling what has 
been proved to be a deliberate lie. In the 
circumstances he will be seriously cautioned 
in the Chancellor's name, and the granting 
of his annual increment will be deferred for 
twelve months/ Have you got that?" 

"Yes, sir," answered the clerk. 

11 Very well. Type it tor my signature. 
You can go." 

Alone ui his big room Trevannion turned 
to the letter again* He looked at the 
envelope first It was dated Southampton 
two days back. 

Then he looked at the letter itself, read it, 
re-read it with eyes of despair. Suddenly, at 
the foot, l.e caught the word "Ow." He 
reversed the sheet and saw the letters " P.SV 
a long, following paragraph below ; — 

Dai>i>y, Dbar Daddy,— II was cruel, unspeak- 
ably cruel of you to do what you did, But neither 
Roland nor I can be unforgiving. I think, though 
we are neither of us clever, we both under stun d what 
you felt. And if* when you retire, you feel lonely 
and I^ondon .seems em ply and everything [ s ju]] an 3 
horrid, we shall always, always have room for you on 
the ranch for as lofifj as ever you like to slay. — 
Yours lovingly, ClssiK. 

Her father's cheeks crinkled as he read, 
his forehead furrowed, his lips primmed fierce 
and hard. But when he came to the end, 
Trevannion — Trevannion of the Treasury — 
Budget maker and strong man, put his head 
in his hands and cried like a little child 



Original from 


T7ne fving and Queen ana tneir Children. 

KING GEORGE V. (Born 1865). 

From a Fhategrafk by l.^j&yeUt i Ltd. 



QUEEN MARY (Born 1867). 

Fl**H ft Ph#tfi£r*ph fy E. If, Miffa. 


p) l 

PRINCE EDWARD (rhe Heir IN PJ A t^4 U fS V Born 1894). 

From a Pk0t&£r&ph by IV, &* Lh Dttttmty. 




{B INDlA t ^ t! IVE R SITV 

Frvm a Ph&t&£*ap. x t fy Kirk S* Stffu, Ctnutj* 



PRINCESS MARY (Their Majesties' onlJPtyUUW 


Vat. xL-HX 

Frem a Photograph 6y La/ayetie, Du&is*, 




/ roirt a Pkvt$£T*fh Ay LafopiUty Dublin, 





PRINCE GEORGE (Born 1902). 

Fram a Pketegraph by Ln/aytUt 3 Dublin, 




brvm a. Ph&i&grafik by LafayetU t Dublin. 


* A.E."W!Masoti 

Illustrated by W, H. Margetson, R.L 



ND what she heard made her 
blood run cold. 

Mme Dauvray spoke in a 
hushed, awestruck voice. 

" There is a Presence in 
the room/ 1 

It was horrible to Celia 
that the poor woman was speaking the jargon 
that she herself had taught to hen 

M I will speak to it," said Mme. Dauvray, and, 
raising her voice a little, she asked, " Who are 
you that come to us from the spirit- world ? " 

And all the while Celia knew that Wether- 
mill was stealing noiselessly across the floor 
towards that voice which spoke this pro- 
fessional patter with so simple a solemnity. 

" Answer ! " she said* And the next 
moment she uttered a little shrill cry — a 
cry of enthusiasm. " Fingers touch my fore- 
head — now they touch my cheek — now they 
touch my throat ! " 

And upon that the voice ceased. But a 
dry, choking sound was heard, and a horrible 
scuffling and tapping of feet "upon the polished 
floor They were murdering her — murdering 
an old, kind woman silently and methodically 
in the darkness. The girl strained and 
twisted against the pillar, furiously, like an 
animal in a trap. But the coils of rope held 
her and tortured her. The scuffling became 
a spasmodic sound with intervals between, 
and then ceased altogether* A voice spoke 
—a man's voice— WethermiU's, But Celia 
would never have recognized it— it had so 
shrill and fearful an intonation. 

"That's horrible," he said. 

Then a woman's voice followed — Helene 
Vauquier's, and easily identified. She spoke 
aloud and quite indifferently- Nothing of 
any importance whatever, one , W^4 fa* ve 
gathered, had occurred. 

"I will turn on the light," she said. And 

through the chinks in the curtain the bright 
light shone. Celia heard a loud rattle upon 
the table and then fainter sounds of the same 
kind. And, as a kind of horrible accompani- 
ment, there ran the laboured breathing of 
the maiij which broke now and then with a 
sobbing sound. They were stripping Mme. 
Dauvray of her pearl necklace, her bracelets, 
and her rings. Celia had a sudden importu- 
nate vision of the old woman's fat, podgy 
hands loaded with brilliants. A jingle of 
keys followed* 

"That's all," Helene Vauquier said She 
might have just turned out the pocket of an 
old dress. 

There was the sound of something heavy 
and inert falling with a dull crash upon the 
floor, A woman laughed, and again it was 
Helene Vauquier, 

" Which is the key of the safe ? " asked 
Adele, And Helene Vauquier replied : — 

"That one." 

Celia heard someone drop heavily into 
a chair. It was Wether mi 11, and he buried 
his face in his hands* 

Helene went over to him and laid her hand 
roughly upon his shoulder and shook him, 

11 Do you go and get her jewels out of the 
safe," she said, and she spoke with a rough 

"You promised you would blindfold the 
girl/' he cried^ hoarsely, 

H^lkne Vauquier laughed. " Did I ? " she 
said. "Well, what does it matter?" 

" There would have been no need to " 

And his voice broke off shuddering. 

" Wouldn't there ? And what of us — 
Adele and me ? She knows certainly that 
we are here. Come, go and get the 
jewels. The key of the door's on the 
mantelshelf. While you are away we two 
will arrange the pretty baby in there/' 

She pointed to the recess ; her voice rang 
with contempt, Wethermill staggered across 

A. E, W, Mason, 




the room like a drunkard, and picked up the 
key in trembling fingers. Celia heard it 
turn in the lock, and the door bang. 
Wethermill had gone upstairs. • 

Celia leaned back, her heart fainting within 
her. Arrange ! It was her turn now. She 
was to be "arranged." She had no doubt 
what sinister meaning that innocent word con- 
cealed. The dry, choking sound, the horrid 
scuffling of feet upon the floor, were in her ears. 
And it had taken so long ! So terribly long ! 

She heard the door open again and shut 
again. Then steps approached the recess. 
The curtains were flung back, and the two 
women stood in front of her ; the tall AdMe 
Rossignol with her red hair and her coarse, 
good looks, and her sapphire dress, and the 
hard featured, sallow maid. The maid was 
carrying Celia's white coat. They did not 
mean to murder her, then. They meant to 
take her away, and even then a spark of hope 
lit up in the girl's bosom. For with all her 
illusions crushed she still clung to life with all 
the passion of her young soul. 

The two women stood and looked at her 
and then Ad&le Rossignol burst out laughing. 
Vauquier approached the girl, and Celia had 
a moment's hope that she meant to free her 
altogether, but she only loosed the cords 
which fixed her to the pillar and the high stool. 

" Mademoiselle will pardon me for laugh- 
ing," said Adele Rossignol, politely; "but 
it was mademoiselle who invited me to try 
my hand. And really, for so smart a young 
lady, mademoiselle looks too ridiculous." 

She lifted the girl up and carried her back 
writhing and struggling into the salon. The 
whole of the pretty room was within view, 
but in the embrasure of a window something 
lay dreadfully still and quiet. Celia held her 
head averted. But it was there, and, though 
it was there, all the while the women joked 
and laughed, Adfele Rossignol feverishly, 
H£lene Vauquier with a real glee most 
horrible to see. 

" I beg mademoiselle not to listen," said 
Hel£ne. And she began to ape in a mincing, 
extravagant fashion the manner of a sales- 
woman in a shop. " Mademoiselle has never 
looked so ravishing. This style is the last 
word of fashion. It is what there is of most 
chic. Of course, mademoiselle understands 
that the costume is not intended for playing 
the piano. Nor, indeed, for the ballroom. 
It leaps to one's eyes that dancing would 
be difficult. Nor is it intended for 
much conversation. It is a costume for a 
mood of quiet reflection. But I assure 
% ademoiselle that for pretty young ladies 

who are the. favourites of rich old women 
it is the style most recommended by the 
criminal classes." 

All the woman's bitter rancour against 
Celia, hidden for months beneath a mask 
of humility, burst out and ran riot now. 
She went to AdMe Rossignol's help, and 
they flung the girl face downwards upon 
the sofa. Her face struck the cushion at 
one end, her feet the cushion at the other. 
The breath was struck out of her body. She 
lay with her bosom heaving. 

H£lene Vauquier watched her for a moment 
with a grin, paying herself now for her respect- 
ful speeches and attendance. 

11 Yes, lie quietly and reflect, little ' fool," 
she said, savagely. " Were you wise to come 
here and interfere with H^lfcne Vauquier ? 
Hadn't you better have stayed and danced 
in your rags at Montmartre ? Are the smart 
frocks and the pretty hats and the good 
dinners worth the price ? Ask yourself these 
questions, my dainty little friend ! " She drew 
up a chair to Celia's side and sat down upon 
it comfortably. 

" I will tell you what we are going to do 
with you, Mile. C^lie. Adfele Rossignol and 
that kind gentleman, M. Wethermill, are 
going to take you away with them. You will 
be glad to go, won't you, dearie ? For you 
love M. Wethermill, don't you ? Oh, they 
won't keep you long enough for you to get 
tired of them. Do not fear ! But you will 
not come back, Mile. C£lie. No ; you have 
seen too much to-night. And everyone will 
think that Mile. C£lie helped to murder and 
rob her benefactress. They are certain to 
suspect someone, so why not you, pretty 

Celia made no movement. She lay trying 
to believe that no crime had been committed ;.. 
that that lifeless body did not lie against the 
wall. And then she heard in the room above 
a bed wheeled roughly from its place. 

The two women heard it too, and looked 
at one another. 

*' He should look in the safe," said Vauquier. 
11 Go and see what he is doing. 1 ' And Ad&le 
Rossignol ran from the room. 

As soon as she was gone Vauquier followed 
to the door, listened, closed it gently, and 
came back. She stooped down and felt the 
knots at the girl's wrists and ankles. 

" Mile. Celie," she said, in a smooth, silky 
voice, which terrified the girl more than her 
harsh tones,, " there is just one little thing 
wrong ij«[)|jfflqjr||^pp«e:ura,iice l one tiny little 
piece of bad taste, if mademoiselle will pardon 
a poor servant the expression. I did not 



mention it before Adtle Rossignol ; she is so 
severe in her criticism, is she not ? But since 
we are alone, I will presume to point out to 
mademoiselle that those diamond eardrops 
which I see peeping out under the scarf are 
a little ostentatious in her present predica- 
ment. They are a provocation to thieves* 

w " Mile. Celie is under control," she said. 
" We shall have to teach her that it is not 
polite in young ladies to kicL*' She pressed 
Celia down with a hand upon her back, and 
her voice changed. 

** Lie still ! " she commanded, savagely* 
" Do you hear? Do you know what this is^ 


Will mademoiselle permit me to remove 
them ? " 

She caught her by the neck and lifted her 
up. She pushed the lace scarf up at the side 
of Celiacs head, Celia began to struggle 
furiously, convulsively. She kicked and 
writhed, and a little tearing sound was heard. 
One of her shoe-buckles had caught in the 
thin silk covering of the cushion and slit it. 
Helene Vauquier let her fall. She felt com- 
posedly in her pocket, and drew from it an 
aluminium flask — the same flask which 
Hanaud was afterwards to snatch up in the 
bedroom in Geneva. Celia stared at her in 
dread. She saw the flask flashing in the light. 
She shrank from it, She wondered what new 
horror was to grip her. Helene unscrewed 
the top and laughed pleasantly. 

Mile. Celie?'; And she held the flask 
towards the girVs face. l( This is vitriol, my 
pretty one. Move, and I'll spoil these! 
smooth white shoulders for you. How 
would you like that ?' J 

Celia shuddered from head to foot^ and, 
burying her face in the cushion, lay trem- 
bling. She would have begged for death 
upon her knees rather than suffer this horror. 
She felt Vauquier's lingers lingering with a 
dreadful caressing touch upon her shoulders 
and about her throat. She was within an 
ace of the tortus the disfigurement, and she 
knew it She could not pray for mercy- 
She could only lie quite still, as she was 
bidden, .trviog, fQ|L5PiUg9i T the shuddering of 
her limbs and ho^l'' thjM r 

" It would be a good lesson for Mile- 



C£lie," H£l£ne continued, slowly. " I think 
that if Mile. Celie will forgive the liberty I 
ought to inflict it. One little tilt of the flask 
and the satin of these pretty shoulders " 

She broke off suddenly and listened. Some 
sound heard outside had given Celia a respite, 
perhaps more than a respite. H&ene set the 
flask down upon the table. Her avarice had got 
the better of her hatred. She roughly plucked 
the earrings out of the girrs ears. She hid 
them quickly in the bosom of her dress with 
her eye upon the door. She did not see a 
drop of blood gather on the lobe of Celia's 
ear and fall into the cushion on which her 
face was pressed. She had hardly hidden 
them away before the door opened and 
Adele Rossignol burst into the room. 

" What is the matter ? " asked Vauquier. 

" The safe's empty. We have searched the 
room. We have found nothing," she cried. 

" Everything is in the safe/' Helfene insisted. 

11 No." 

The two women ran out of the room and 
up the stairs. Celia, lying on the settee, 
heard all the quiet of the house change to 
noise and commotion. It was as though a 
tornado raged in the room overhead. Furni- 
ture was tossed about and over the room, 
feet stamped and ran, locks were smashed in 
with heavy blows. For many minutes the 
storm raged. Then it ceased and she heard 
the accomplices clattering down the stairs 
without a thought of the noise they made. 
They burst into the room. Harry Wethermill 
was laughing hysterically, like a man off his 
head. He had been wearing a long dark 
overcoat when he entered the house. Now 
he carried the coat over his arm. He was in 
a dinner-jacket, and his black clothes were 
dusty and disordered. 

" It's all for nothing ! " he screamed rather 
than cried. " Nothing but the one necklace 
and a handful of rings ! " In a frenzy he 
actually stooped over the dead woman and 
questioned her. 

"Tell us — where did you hide them?" he 

"The girl will know," said H<£fene. 

Wethermill rose up and looked wildly at 
Celia. " Yes, yes," he said. He had no 
scruple, no pity any longer for the girl. There 
was no gain from the crime unless she spoke. 
He would have placed his head in the 
guillotine for nothing. He ran to the writing- 
table, tore off half a sheet of paper, and 
brought it over with a pencil to the sofa. He 
gave them to Vauquier to hold, and drawing 
out the sofa from the wall slipped in behind, 
lifted up Celia with Rossignol's help, and 

made her sit in the middle of the sofa with 
her feet upon the ground. He unbound her 
wrists and fingers, and Vauquier placed the 
writing-pad and the paper on the girl's knees. 
Her arms were still pinioned above the 
elbows ; she could not raise her hands high 
enough to snatch the scarf from her lips. But 
with the pad held up to her she could write. 

" Where did she keep her jewels ? Quick ! 
Take the pencil and write," said Wethermill, 
holding her left wrist Vauquier thrust the pencil 
into her right hand, and awkwardly and slowly 
her gloved fingers moved across the page. 

" I do not know," she wrote ; and, with an 
oath, Wethermill snatched the paper up, tore 
it into pieces, and threw it down. 

" You have got to know," he said, his face 
purple with passion, and he flung out his arm 
as though he would dash his fist into her 
face. But as he stood with his arm poised 
there came a singular change upon his face. 

"Did you hear anything?" he asked, in a 

All listened, and all heard in the quiet of 
the night a faint click, and after an interval 
they heard it again, and after another but 
shorter interval yet once more. 

"That's the gate," said Wethermill, in a 
whisper of fear, and a pulse of hope stirred 
within Celia, He seized her wrists, crushed 
them together in his left hand behind her, 
and swiftly and tightly bound them once 
more. Ad&le Rossignol sat down upon the 
floor, took the girl's feet upon her lap, and 
quietly wrenched off her shoes. 

"The light," cried Wethermill, inanagonized 
voice, and H£&ne Vauquier flew across the 
room and turned it off. All three stood 
holding their breath, straining their ears in the 
dark room. On the hard gravel of the drive 
outside footsteps became faintly audible, and 
grew louder and came near. Adfele whispered 
to Vauquier : — 

" Has the girl a lover ?" 

And Helene Vauquier, even at that 
moment, laughed quietly. 

All Celia's heart and youth rose in revolt 
against her extremity. If she could only 
free her lips ! The footsteps came round the 
corner of the house, they sounded on the 
drive outside the very window of this room. 
One cry, and she would be saved. She 
tossed back her head and tried to force 
the handkerchief out from between her 
teeth. But Wethermill's hand covered her 
mouth and held it closed. The footsteps 
stopped, a light shone for a moment outside. 
The very handle of the door was tried. 
Within a few yards help was there — help and 



M V - r ■- 

Original from 





life. Just a frail, latticed wooden door stood 
between her and them. She tried to rise to 
her feet AdMe Rossignol held her legs 
firmly. She was powerless. She sat with 
one desperate hope that, whoever it was who 
was in the garden, he would break in. Were 
it even another murderer, he might have 
more pity than the callous brutes who held 
her now; he could have no less. But the 
footsteps moved away. It was the with- 
drawal of all hope. Celia heard Wethermill 
behind her draw a long breath of relief. That 
seemed to Celia almost the cruellest part of the 
whole tragedy. They waited in the darkness 
until the faint click of the gate was heard 
once more. Then the light was turned up 
again. * 

" We must go," said Wethermill. All the 
three of them were shaken. To get out of 
the room, to have done with the business — 
that had suddenly become their chief 

Adfele picked up the necklace and the 
rings from the satinwood table and put thern 
into a pocket-bag which was slung at her waist. 

4< Hippolyte shall turn these things into 
money," she said. " He shall set about it 
to-morrow. We shall have to keep the girl 
now— until she tells us where the rest is 

"Yes, keep her," said Htffene. "We will 
come over to Geneva in a few days as soon 
as we can. We will persuade her to tell." 
She glanced darkly at the girl. Celia 

"Yes, that's it," said Wethermill. "But 
don't hurt her. She will tell of her own will. 
You will see. The delay won't hurt now. 
We can't come back and search for a little 

He was speaking in a quick, agitated voice. 
And Adfele agreed. The desire to be gone 
had killed even their fury at the loss of their 
prize. Some time they would come back, but 
they would not search now — they were too 

"H&fene," said Wethermill, "get to bed. 
I'll come up with the chloroform and put you 
to sleep." 

H£lSne Vauquier hurried upstairs. Wether- 
mill took the length of rope which had fixed 
Celia to the pillar: 

" I'll follow," he said, and as he turned he 
stumbled over the body of Mme. Dauvray. 
With a shrill cry he kicked it out of his way 
and crept up the stairs. Adfcle Rossignol 
quickly set the room in order. She removed 
*.he stool from its position in the recess, and 
tfter a glance at her victim carried it tQ its 

place in the hall. She put Celia's shoes upon 
her fett, loosening the cord about her ankles 
and tightening it again. Then she looked 
about the floor and picked up here and there 
a scrap of cord. In the silence the clock 
upon the mantelshelf chimed the quarter past 
eleven. She screwed the stopper into the 
flask of vitriol very carefully, and put it away 
in her pocket She went into the kitchen 
and fetched the key of the garage. She put 
her hat on her head. She even picked up 
and put on her gloves, afraid lest she should 
leave them behind ; and then Wethermill 
came down again. Adele looked at him 

" It is all done," he said, with a nod of the 
head. " I will bring the car round to the 
door. Then I'll drive you to Geneva and 
come back with the car here." 

He cautiously opened the latticed door of 
the window, listened for a moment, and ran 
silently down the drive. Ad&le closed the 
door again, but she did not bolt it. She 
came back into the room ; she looked at 
Celia, as she lay back upon the settee, with 
a long glance of indecision. And then, to 
Celia's surprise — for she had given up all 
hope — the indecision in her eyes became 
pity. She suddenly ran across the room and 
knelt down before Celia. With quick and 
feverish hands she untied the cord which 
fastened the train of her skirt about her 

At first Celia shrank away, fearing some 
new cruelty. But Ad&le's voice came to her 
ears, speaking— and speaking with remorse. 

" I can't endure it ! " she whispered. " You 
are so young — too young to be killed." 

The tears were rolling down Celia's cheeks. 
Her face was pitiful and beseeching. 

"Don't look at me like that, for God's 
sake, child ! " Adfele went on, and she 
unbound the girl's ankles and chafed them 
for a moment. 

" Can you stand ? " she asked. 

Celia nodded her head gratefully. After 
all, then, she was not to die. It seemed to 
her hardly possible. But before she could 
rise a subdued whirr of machinery penetrated 
into the room, and the motor-car came slowly 
to the front of the villa. 

" Keep still ! " said Adfele, hurriedly, and 
she placed herself in front of Celia. 

Wethermill opened the wooden door, while 
Celia's heart raced in her bosom. 

"I will go down and open the gate," he 
whispered. 3i Are you ready ? " 


Wethermill disappeared; and this time 



he left the door open. Ad tie helped Celia 
to her feeL For a moment she t<Sttered ; 
then she stood firm, 

"Now run!" whispered Adele. "Run, 
child, for your life ! 7i 

Celia did not stop to think whither she 
should run » or how she should escape from 
We therm ill's 
search. She 
could not ask 
that her lips and 
her hands might 
be freed. She * 
had but a few- 
seconds. She had 
oue thought — to 
hide herself in 
the darkness of 
the garden, 
Celia fled across 
the room, sprang 
wildly over the 
sill, ran, tripped 
over her skirt, 
steadied herself, 
and was swung 
off the ground 
by the arms of 
Harry Wether- 

"There we 
are/* he said, 
with his shrill, 
wavering laugh. 
" I opened the 
gate before." 
And suddenly 
Celia hung inert 
in his arms. 

The light 
went out in the 
salon, A dele 
Rossignol, carry- 
ing Celia's cloak, 
stepped out at 
the side of the 

" She has fainted ! " said Wethermill. 
" Wipe the mould off her shoes and ofF 
yours, too— carefully, I don't want them 
to think this car has been out of the garage 
at all" 

Adele stooped and obeyed, Wethermill 
opened the door of the car and flung Celia 
into a seat. Adele followed and took her 
seat opposite the girl. Wethermill stepped 
carefully again on to the grass, and with the 
toe of his shoe scraped up and ploughed the 
impressions which he and Adfele Rossignol 


had made on the ground, leaving those which 

Celia had made. He came back to the 


" She has left hei footmarks clear 

enough, " he whispered, " There will 

be no doubt in the morning that she 

went of her own free wilL" 

Then he took 
the chauffeur's 
seat, and the 
car glided 
silently down 
the drive and 
out by the gate. 
Once on the 
road it stopped. 
In an instant 
Adfele Rossig- 
nol's head was 
out of the 

" What is k?" 
she exclaimed in 

pointed to the 

He had left 
the light burn- 
ing in Helene 

t( We can't 
go back now," 
said Adele, in 
a frantic whis- 
per, " No ; it 
is over, I 
daren't go 
back. 11 

And Wether- 
mill jammed 
down the lever, 
The car sprang 
forward, and 
steadily over the 

white road devoured the miles. But they 

had made their one mistake- 

V* h m A' 


The car was half-way to Annecy before Celia 
woke to consciousness. And even then she 
was dazed. She was only aware that she 
was in the motor-car and travelling at a great 

n* ed - Jto# fiwwW n s t i n J?" fresh 

air. Then she movea, and with the move- 
ment came to her recollection and the sense 
of pain. Her arms and wrists were still 



bound behind her, and the cords hurt her 
like hot wires. Her mouth, however, and 
her feet were free. She started forward, 
and Ad&le Rossignol spoke sternly from the 
seat opposite. 

" Keep still. I am holding the flask in my 
hand. If you scream, if you make a move- 
ment to escape, I shall fling the vitriol in 
your face," she said. 

Celia shrank back, shivering. 

" I won't ! I won't ! " she whispered, 
piteously. Her spirit was broken by the 
horrors of the night's adventure. She lay 
back and cried quietly in the darkness of the 
carriage. The car dashed through Annecy. 
It seemed incredible to Celia that less than 
six hours ago she had been dining with Mme. 
Dauvray and the woman opposite, who was 
now her jailer. Mme. Dauvray lay dead in 
the little salon, and she herself —she dared 
not think what lay in front of her. She 
was to be persuaded— that was the word — to 
tell what she did not know. Meanwhile her 
name would be execrated through Aix as 
the murderess of the woman who had 
saved her. 

Some way beyond Annecy the car slackened 
its speed. By the side of it Celia heard the 
sound of wheels and of the hoofs of a horse. 
A single-horsed closed landau had been 
caught up as it jogged along the road. The 
motor-car stopped; close by the side of it 
the driver of the landau reined in his horse. 
Wethermill jumped down from the chauffeur's 
seat, opened the door of the landau, and 
then put his head in at the window of the 

" Are you ready ? Be quick ! " 

Adfele turned to Celia. 

" Not a word, remember ! " 

Wethermill flung open the door of the 
car. Adele took the girl's feet and drew 
them down to the step of the car. Then 
she pushed her out. Wethermill caught her 
in his arms and carried her to the landau. 
Celia dared not cry out. Her hands were 
helpless, her face at the mercy of that grim 
flask. Just ahead of them the lights of 
Geneva were visible, and from the lights a 
silver radiance overspread a patch of sky. 
Wethermill placed her in the landau ; Ad&le 
sprang in behind her and closed the door. 
The transfer had taken no more than a few 
seconds. The landau jogged into Geneva ; 
the motor turned and sped back over the 
fifty miles of empty road to Aix. 

As the motor-car rolled away, courage 

urned for a moment to Celia. The man 
he murderer— had gone. She was alone 

with Adele Rossignol in a carriage moving at 
no faster speed than an ordinary trot. Her 
ankles were free, the gag had been taken 
from her lips. If only she could free her 
hands and choose a moment when Ad&le was 
off her guard she might open the door and 
spring out on to the road. She saw Ad&le 
draw down the blinds of the carriage, and 
very carefully, very secretly, Celia began to 
work her hands behind her. She was an 
adept ; no movement was visible, but, on the 
other hand, no success was obtained. The 
knots had been too cunningly tied. And 
then Mme. Rossignol resumed her seat. 

She turned on a tiny lamp in the roof of 
the carriage and raised a warning hand to 

" Now keep very quiet." 

Right through the empty streets of Geneva 
the landau was quietly driven. Adfele had 
peeped from time to time under the blind. 
There were few people in the streets. Once 
or twice a sergent-de-ville was seen under 
the light of a lamp. Celia dared not cry out. 
Over against her, persistently watching her, 
Ad61e Rossignol sat with the open flask 
clenched in her hand, and from the vitriol 
Celia shrank with an overwhelming terror. 
The carriage cfrove out from the town along 
the western edge of the lake. 

" Now listen," said Adele. " As soon as 
the landau stops the door of the house 
opposite to which it stops will open. I shall 
oj>en the carriage door myself and you will 
get out. You will stand close by the 
carriage door until I have got out I shall 
hold this flask ready in my hand. As 
soon as I am out you w 11 run across the 
pavement into the house. You won't speak 
or scream." 

Adele Rossignol drew up the carriage 
blinds and turned out the lamp. 

Ten minutes later the carriage passed down 
the little street and attracted Mme. Gobin's 
notice. She had lit no light. Ad&le 
Rossignol peered from beneath the blind. 
She saw the houses in darkness. She could 
not see the busybody's face watching her from 
a dark window. She cut the cords which 
bound the girl's hands. The carriage stopped. 
She opened the door. Celia sprang out at 
the door. She sprang so quickly that Adele 
Rossignol caught and held the train of her 
dress. But it was the fear of the vitriol 
which had made her spring so nimbly. It was 
that, too, which made her run so lightly and 
quickly into the house. The old woman who 
acted as servant, Jeanne Tac£, received her. 
Celia offered no resistance. The fear of 



vitriol had made her supple as a glove, 
Jeanne hurried her down the stairs into the 
little parlour at the back of the house, where 
supper was laid, and pushed her into a chair. 
Celia let her arms fall forward on the table. 
She had no hope now. She was friendless 
and alone in a den of murderers, who meant 
first to torture, then to kill her. She would 
be held up to execration as a murderess. 
No one would know how she had died or 
what she had suffered. She was in pain, and 
her throat burned. She buried her face in 
her arms and sobbed. All her body shook 
with her sobbing. 

Jeanne Tace took no notice. She 
treated Celia just as the others had done. 
Celia was la petite, against whom she had 
no animosity, by whom she was not to 
be touched to any tenderness. La petite 
had unconsciously played her useful part in 
their crime. But her use was ended now, and 
they would deal with her accordingly. She 
removed the girl's hat and cloak and tossed 
them aside. Then she tethered her ankles 
to the leg of the table. 

" Now stay quiet until we are ready for 
you," she said. And Celia, lifting her head, 
said, in a whisper : — 

" Water ! " 

The old woman poured some from a jug 
and held the glass to Celia's lips. 

" Thank you," whispered Celia, gratefully, 
and Adfele came into the room. She told 
the story of the night to Jeanne, and after- 
wards to Hippolyte when he joined them. 

" And nothing gained ! " cried the older 
woman, furiously. " And we have hardly a 
five-franc piece in the house." 

" Yes, something," said Adele, " A neck- 
lace—a good one — some good rings, and 
bracelets. And we shall find out where the 
rest is hid — from her." And she nodded at 

The three people ate their supper, and, 
while they ate it, discussed Celia's fate. She 
was lying with her head bowed upon her arms 
at the same table within a foot of them. But 
they made no more of her presence than if 
she had been an old shoe. Only once did 
one of them speak to her. 

" Stop your whimpering," said Hippolyte, 
roughly. "We can hardly hear ourselves 

He was for finishing with the business 
altogether that night. 

"It's a mistake," he said. "There's been 
a bungle, and the sooner we are rid of it the 
better. There's a boat at the bottom of the 

Celia listened and shuddered. He would 
have no more compunction over drowning 
her than he would have had over drowning a 
blind kitten. 

"It's cursed luck," he said. "But we 
have got the necklace — that's something. 
That's our share, do you see? The young 
spark can look for the rest." 

But H£ldne Vauquier's wish prevailed. 
She was the leader. They would keep the 
girl until she came to Geneva. 

They freed her and took her upstairs into 
the big bedroom overlooking the lake. Ad&le 
opened the door of the closet where a truckle 
bed stood, and thrust the girl in. 

"This is my room," she said, warningly, 
pointing to the bedroom. "Take eye I hear 
no noise. You might shout yourself hoarse, 
my pretty one ; no one else would hear you. 
But I should, and afterwards — we should no 
longer be able to call you 'my pretty one,' 

And with a horrible playfulness she 
pinched the girl's cheek. 

They stripped Celia and told her to get 
into bed. 

" I'll give her something to keep her quiet," 
said Adele, and she fetched her morphia- 
needle and injected a dose into Celia's 

Then they took her clothes away and left 
her in the darkness. She heard the key 
turn in the lock, and a moment after the 
sound of the bedstead being drawn across 
the doorway. But she heard no more. For 
almost immediately she fell asleep. 

She was awakened some time the next day 
by the door opening. Old Jeanne Tac£ 
brought her in a jug of water and a roll of 
bread and locked her up again. And a long 
time afterwards she brought her another 
supply. Yet another day had gone, but in 
that dark cupboard Celia had no means of 
judging time. 

In the afternoon the newspaper came 
out with the announcement that Mme. 
Dauvray's jewellery had been discovered 
under the boards. Hippolyte brought in the 
newspaper, and, cursing their stupidity, they 
sat down to decide upon Celia's fate. That, 
however, was soon arranged. They would 
dress her in everything which she wore when 
she came, so that no trace of her might be 
discovered. They would give her another 
dose of morphia, sew her up in a sack as 
soon as she was unconscious, row her far out 
on to the lake, and sink her with a weight 
attached. They dragged her out from he 
cupboard, always with the threat of tha 




bright aluminium flask before her eyes. She 
fell upon her knees, imploring their pity with 
the tears running down her cheeks ; hut 
they sewed the strip of sacking over her 
face, so that she should see nothing of their 
preparations , and secured her as Hanaud 

had discovered her. They flung h^r on 
the sofa and, leaving her in the old woman's 
charge, went down, Adele for her needle, 
Hippolyle to get ready the boat. As Hippo 
lyte opened the door, he saw the launch of 
the Chef de la SQret£ glide into the bank* 

(To fie included.) 

by Google 

Original from 

Famous Feasters By Flashlight. 

[An interview witk Mr. Albert Young, whose firm, Messrs. Fradelle 
and Young, make a speciality of pkotograpking Public Dinners.] 



as every 
no great London 
dinner is complete 
without an instan- 
taneous pictorial 
record of the 

" What will you 
have, my lord ? " 
asked a waiter at 
the Mansion House. 
"Another mag- 
num ?" 

" Magnum ? " re- 
plied Sir William 
Treloar, indicating 
the flashlight photo- 
grapher and motion- 
ing the man aside. 
" No ; we are now 
all going to have 

And the appear- 
ance of the tall, 
bearded man on 
steps which resemble 
a scaffold is always 
the signal for merri- 
ment and jocosity. 
Why ? One recalls 
the remark of Mr. 
Emanuel, of Punchy at a medical banquet, 
to whom his neighbour, consulting the toast- 
list, observed : — 

"There will be some moving speeches. " 
Just then the flash came. 
"Yes, and it's all wrong. We are to be 
taken before being shaken." 

More than one reference to the inevitable 
process has been made by distinguished 

"As I surveyed the assembled company 
this evening," once said, for instance, the 
late I^ord Salisbury, "it came to me in a 
flash" — he paused — "not the flash," he 
added, " with which our friend in the corner 
there has illuminated us." 


" Will the Chairman kindly 

" I will endeavour, at your chairman's 
request," said another eminent speaker at the 
Mansion House, "to throw a little light on 
the subject. But in this operation I fear I 
shall not attain the success of the gentleman 
who has just addressed you." 

This particular gentleman, Mr. Albert 
Young, is a familiar figure to all banqueters. 
After twenty years' experience he has become 
an authority on banquets and banqueting. 
He has on hundreds of occasions faced and 
photographed the most illustrious diners of 
the land in the act of dining, from His 
Majesty the King down to a festive sandwich- 
man. His chief regret is that he did not live 
in the age of Lucullus, that he might be able 
to compare the repleted Roman with the 
luxurious London convivialist. 

Fifteen years ago there was much prejudice 
to be overcome. Restaurant and hotel pro- 
prietors feared that the flashlight would cause 
annoyance to distinguished guests, and ladies 
were afraid of not looking their best. That 
belongs to the past Neither King George 
nor his illustrious father ever objected to 
being photographed in this way, and now the 
old feeling is quite dead. Mr. Young has 
covered as many as seven dinners in one 
night. The plates are placed in a motor-car, 
rushed off to Regent Street, developed, and 
a print is taken while the plate is still wet. 
Thus, thirty-five minutes or so after the 
picture has been taken the proof is in the 
hands of the guests. 

His first attempt at a flashlight picture of 
a banquet was at the dinner of the Thirteen 
Club, when all the guests walked under 
ladders to reach their seats, when mirrors 
were broken and salt was spilt. Although, 
personally, he was not superstitious, it was 
most remarkable that everything in connec- 
tion with the Thirteen Club did turn out 
very unfortunate. Some of the chief organ- 
izers had every kind of misfortune befall 
them, and, as for Mr. Young himself, his 
work Plftfrt 

" Yet flashlight photography," declares 
Mr. Young, "simply bristles with difficulties 
Rooms are not built, tables are not laid, tc 




suit the convenience of photographers, and 
the best has to be made of the circumstances. 
Frequently the pillars of a room, the hanging 
chandeliers, the flags and drapery are a 
source of great trouble, 

" Occasionally someone will conceal his or 
her face, but this is of very rare occurrence, 
and has never once, during the" many years 
of my experience, occurred with any distin- 
guished guest, as I think can be confirmed 
by a glance through the photographs ; and I 
am inclined to believe that when it has 
occurred it has not been from any intentional 
discourtesy, but solely because it has been 
thought that the position was too near the 
camera, and that the portrait would not be perfectly clear afterwards." 

represent the chairman standing, 
but only this umbrella can be 
seen, yet it was impossible from 
any point of the room where the 
camera could be placed to obtain 
any view of his seaL These 
terrible umbrellas drove me dis- 
tracted when I arrived for any 
very important event and found 
what I had to contend with, but 
as soon as this manager saw 
what a really serious impedi- 
ment they were to me, he very 
courteously modified his plans 
considerably, so that now I am 
not so much harassed from this 
cause* But all difficulties sink into Insignificance 
compared with the worry of tobacco smoke- 

" A successful photograph is impossible 
when smoking has* commenced, and, much 
as I may enjoy the weed mysi If, there are 
times when I have not any kindly thought 
for the immortal memory of Sir Walter 

" There is nothing I dread so much as 
1 Gentlemen, you may smoke,' if it has not 
been possible to obtain the photograph 
previously, and of recent years this difficulty 
has been intensified by the custom to start 
the cigarettes midway in the dinner, with the 
sorbet, as the atmosphere never becomes 

included An attempt was therefore made 
to shield the eyes from what was feared 
would be a blinding flash, but which is really 
very mild indeed. 

"Another difficulty arises from very high 
or unusual table decorations. One hotel 
manager had the hobby of studding the 
whole of the room with floral umbrellas, 
which absolutely concealed the most notable 
personages. One photograph I took should 

When taking his photographs Mr, Voting 
asks the distinguished chairman to stand 
up, though it has often happened that an 
officious waiter has planted himself in front* 
as happened once with no less a personage 
than Lord Salisbury, who, obliterated by a 
stalwart German back, presently sat down 
in disgust Mr. Young notes that eminent 
soldiers are the least inclined to stand up, 
particularly Lord Kitchener ; and at the big 




dinner of the East Anglians it required a 
good deal of persuasion on the part of Sir 
Frederick Robinson, of the Inland Revenue 
Department, to induce Lord Kitchener to pose 
as the central figure in the photograph (i) + 
One of the most remarkable dinners Mr. 
Young has ever attended was that given to 
General Baden Powell by his cousins at the 
Mercers' Hall on September 26th, 1901 (2). 
There was a good deal of mystery about the 
affair, and when Mn Young inquired at the 

Once, when all the foreign Princes who had 
arrived for the Coronation of King Edward 
were being entertained by the Royal Asiatic 
Society, under the presidency of Lord Reay, 
with the Duke of Con naught and the cream 
of English notabilities, the shutter or the lens 
failed to 0[]en, owing to the inner rubber tube 
having twisted > just at the moment of the 
flash, and no result was secured. To have 
attempted another from the same point 
would only have been to confess to a failure, 

therefore the 
photographer had 
the apparatus 
moved to the oppo- 
site end of the 
room, ostensibly 
to complete the 
record, traced and 
corrected the de- 
fect, and secured 
his picture with- 
out anything un- 
usual having been 

The smallest 
dinner - party Mr* 
Young ever photo- 
graphed consisted 
of only three guests. 



The ihree: standing and raUmg their «hssi:s 
are now dead. They were General Olpherla 
(" Hell Fire Jatk' r X General Sir Hrnry Have- 
lock- Allan, and General Sir D- S. Dtxlgsun. 

hall for " Mr. Powell," the person 
he was told to ask for, he was 
amazed to find there were scored 
if not hundreds, of them. 
Naturally the news of this 
" Defence of Mafeking " dinner 
leaked out, and presently an 
enormous crowd assembled* 
Ml Young stood behind 
Clcncral Baden - Powell, and 
heard him say to the lady at 
his side, ** Mother, just look at 
them. I ca ft 1 / face that crowd! " 

Other interesting banquets photographed 
are the long series given by the survivors of 
Luck now. Year by year the diners grow 
fewer, so that when the company separates 
none know of how many the banquet will 
consist next year (3 and 4)* 

At the Pilgrims' banquet (5) the tables 
were covered with rigging and the courses 
announced by a boatswain's whistle. 


Three pictures were taken, and each diner 
occupied the "chair" in succession. Private 
dances, too, are occasionally "snapped," 
Plates are not yet quick enough to allow of 
an instan^n^ousiphiplpgraph of a dance in 
full swbj^tyl thtfjKiK-t- usually pose in the 
lancersl'^iwe-liV^Srirll'iL few persons who 
resolutely turn their backs on the camera, 
but, as a rule, " IVeast make a good portrait 



Not* ib« rigging decariiiiun* anil the waiters dre»*ed a* iiiilora* 

of me," from a single guest in two hundred 
or three hundred, is the kind of thing 
encountered most. 

"Quite the most beautiful of the many 
picturesque functions I have photographed/* 
says Mr. Young, "have been the mar- 
vellous entertainments given by Mr. K;:ssler, 
of which the Gondola dinner at the Savoy 

Hotel on June 30th, 1905, is the ijios?: 
famous (6) ; but, although so much notice was 
not taken in the Press of his great banquet in 
August, 1908, to the Olympic competitors* 
it was really most wonderful and lovely. The 
Greek ruins which rose in one night in his 
beautiful grounds at Bourne End, and which 
formed the background to the banquet he gave 





in an elaborate marquee, were so realistic 
that in a photograph it is most difficult to 
believe that they are only the creations of 
the scene-painter (7). 

il Mr. Henri Pruger, who then directed the 
Savoy, was the originator of these wonderful 
schemes, and he told me that Mr. Kessler 
was so inundated with abusive letters after 
one of these great banquets, with regard to 
the amount he had spent on it, that he 
would not open any more and directed the 
management to deal with the correspondence. 
Yet the money he spent did good to hundreds 
of people, providing employment in very 
many trades, and was infinitely more benefi- 
cial than if he had kept it locked up or spent 
thousands on a single picture. His latest 
entertainment was the 'North Pole* dinner 
of December last (8), A warmer- hearted, 
more genial, or more generous man than 
George A. Kessler I do not expect to meet 

" Many people have chaffed me about 
my little * speech ■ at the banquets, which 
always elicits rounds of applause — somewhat 
ironic, I fear ; but, after all, I must say some- 
thing to attract attention. I have heard 

many celebrated people describing to their 
next neighbour exactly what I was going to 
say, and the amusement has naturally been 
very great when it ,all happened exactly as 

" But to vary the few words I feel I ought to 
say, for a dozen times a night, for almost 
every night of the year, for year after year, 
would be an impossibility, and therefore I 
expect it will always remain, * Will the chair- 
man kindly stand?' and, when all is done, 
1 My lords and gentlemen, I thank you very 

"Almost every notable personage has re- 
sponded most courteously to my request to 
Stand, either as 'chairman' or 'guest of the 
evening'; but I must admit that I have 
marvelled greatly at the continued courtesy 
I have received from nearly all the Lord 
Mayors of London during so many years 
past, notably Sir William Treloar, Sir George 
Truscott, and Sir John Knill. 

il I have realized that, as their position 
entails their appearing before my camera 
usually three or four times every week right 
throughout the year, it must become 


9 2 


4J Bro:h?r Savages, you may &moke ! " 

somewhat monotonous, hut, with very rare 
exceptions, I have received most kindly 

" I have also very grateful remembrance of 
the grackmsness of His late Majesty King 
Edward on so many occasions, and of King 
George and the Duke of Con naught. I was 
■ most particularly struck on one occasion 
with King Edward's wonderful thought ful- 
ness when I wrote to him respecting one of 
the first public banquets he was about to 
attend after his Coronation, reminding him 
of the occasions I had received the honour 

of attending when he was Prince of Wales, 
and asking for his permission again. Almost 
by return of post came a reply : * The King 
has not the slightest objection. The arrange 
ments are in the hands of So-and-so, and if 

you , J etc., etc., quite a long letter, most 

graciously giving me much information, I 
marvelled that, amongst such a multitude of 
really important matters claiming his atten- 
tion, time could be spared for such a gracious 
reply to so very humble a personage as 

i( King George, it is interesting to know, 




has always remem- 
bered the late 
King's dictum, * I 
cannot be for ever 
showing myself to 
my people except 
by the aid of the 
pho tog rapher. 
Many thousands 
cannot see me in 
the fleshy so I never 
put any obstacles 
in the way of the 
photographer. 1 On 
one occasion the 
King was photo- 
graph e d at a 
Savage Club 
dinner in the act 
of saying, * Brother 
Savages, you may 
smoke! 3 (9). On 
another, he re- 
quested a neigh 
bour who had 
lighted a cigarette 
to extinguish 
it until the photograph had been taken, 

"Of course, the majority of dinners I 
attend are for men, and a banquet to the 
other sex is consequently somewhat out of the 
ordinary. The dinner of lady Freemasons is 
an interesting record of such a function {10). 

U I have been present at many farewell 
dinners, of which the most interesting, to my 
mind, was that to Lord Curzon on the eve of 
his departure for India (11). Lord Curzon's 
portrait in the foreground is most successful 

" Among the most interesting 
and unusual photographs I have 
taken is that of th<j Lord Mayor's 
Show Committee. The members 
of this are all prominent City 
men, who donned aprons |nd 


served the joints and food left from the 
Lord Mayors banquet to the poor on the 
following day (12). 

* ( A photograph showing the King, when he 
was Prince of Wales, at the dinner of the 
Orphan Working School (13) is one of the 
most successful I have taken of His Majesty, 
who is so well known as one of the best 
public dinner chairmen alive 

"Certainly there are strange contrasts to the 
luxury of such festivities, but the poor will 


i1t If 

1 h I, 


,:ed by LiQOK 

'Original from 




always be with us, and 
quite the most striking 
contrast was the set 
of photographs I took 
illustrating the ban- 
quet to the sandwich- 
men of London (14)." 

Mr. Young tells 
of a dinner given 
in a fashionable 
restaurant, which was 
marked by an un- 
common Incident, 

The diners formed 
a select company; 
many of them wore 
orders, and all were 
interested in the 
question of the ex-' 
pansion of the 
Knipire. The dinner 
was of the best, and 

to secure a permanent record of the gather- 
ing the services of a photographer were 
requisitioned. A flashlight picture was taken 
just before the toast-list was begun, and every- 
thing went on satisfactorily and smoothly to 
the end. Just before the company separated 
one of them complained that he had lost 
his purse. The management said it was 
impossible. All the same, they made a quiet 
search. The incident was not mentioned 
until a day or two after, when the plate was 
developed and the proof suhmitted. Then, 
to the consternation of those who organized 
the feast, they saw in the photograph, in all 


the nakedness of pic- 
torial truth, something 
to explain the mystery 
of the purse. The 
negative was immedi- 
ately retouched ! 

" So me t i me s, n says 
the photographer, "I 
am blamed, chiefly by 
journalists, that my 
photographs do not 
show the most im- 
portant personages as 
prominently as the 
others ; but what can 
one do when, say, 
five hundred portraits 
have to be included 
on twelve inches of 
paper? After all, my 
work is not for re- 
cording * Celebrities at 
Dinner,' but 'Dining with Celebrities.* 

u No one cares at all fur any photograph 
unless his own portrait is included* But, if 
that is done, guests are entirely satisfied if 
they can distinguish the chief people, even 
though small, as they treasure the photo- 
graphs as a souvenir of their own share in 
the event. 

* [ A banquet consisting of the chairman 
and the few guests at his table would be, 
indeed, a very tame affair. It is the presence 
of the * unimportant ' people which makes 
the importance and the success of the occa- 
sion, and it is that which I commemorate." 


Original from 



Illustrated by Cnas. Crombie. 

HE traveller champed medita- 
tively at his steak. He paid 
no attention to the altercation 
which was in progress between 
the waiter and the man at the 
other end of the dingy room. 
The sounds of strife ceased. 
The waiter came over to the traveller's table 
and stood behind his chair. He was ruffled. 

14 If he meant lamb," he said, querulously, 
11 why didn't he say 4 lamb ' so's a feller could 
hear him? /thought he said ' ham,' so I 
brought ham. Now Lord Percy gets all 

He laughed bitterly. The traveller made 
no reply. 

44 If people spoke distinct," said the waiter, 
" there wouldn't be half the trouble there is 
in the world. Not half the trouble there 
wouldn't be. I shouldn't be here, for one 
thing. In this restawrong, I mean." A sigh 
escaped him. 

44 1 shouldnV he said, "and that's the 
truth. I should be getting jip when I pleased, 
eating and drinking all I wanted, and carry- 
ing on same as in the good old days. You 
wouldn't think, to look at me, would you 
now, that I was once like the lily of the 

The waiter was a tall, stringy man, who 
gave the impression of having no spine. In 
that he drooped, he might have been said to 
resemble a flower, but in no other respect. 
He had sandy hair, weak eyfcs, set close 
together, and a day's growth of red stubble 
on his chin. One could not see him in the 
lily class. 

" What I mean to say is, I didn't toil, 
neither did I spin. Ah, them was happy 
days ! Lying on me back, plenty of tobacco, 
something cool in a jug " 

He sighed once more. 

44 Did you ever know a man of the name 
of Moore ? Jerry Moore ? " 

The traveller applied himself to his steak 
in silence. 

" Nice feller. Simple sort of feller. Big. 
Quiet. Bit deaf in one ear. Straw-coloured 
hair. Blue eyes. 'Andsome, rather. Had 
a 'ouse just outside of Reigate. Has it still. 
Money of his own. I«eft him by his pa. 

Simple sort of feller. Not much to say for 
himself. I used to know him well in them 
days. Used to live with him. Nice feller 
he was. Big. Bit hard of hearing. Got a 
sleepy kind of grin, like this — something." 

The traveller sipped his beer in thoughtful 

" I reckon you never met him," said the 
waiter. " Maybe you never knew Gentle- 
man Bailey, either? We always called him 
that. He was one of these broken-down 
Eton or 'Arrer fellers, folks said. We struck 
up a partnership kind of casual, both being 
on the tramp together, and after a while we 
'appened to be round about Reigate. And 
the first house we come to was this Jerry 
Moore's. He come up just as we was sliding 
to the back door, and grins that sleepy grin. 
Like this — something. * Ullo ! ' he says. 
Gentleman kind of gives a whoop, and 
hollers, 4 If it ain't my old pal, Jerry Moore ! 
Jack,' he says to me, * this is my old pal, 
Mr. Jerry Moore, wot I met in 'appier days 
down at Ramsgate one summer.' 

" They shakes hands, and Jerry Moore 
says, ' Is this a friend of yours, Bailey ? ' 
looking at me. Gentleman introduces me. 
1 We are partners,' he says, ' partners in mis- 
fortune. This is my friend, Mr. Roach.' 

44 'Come along in,' says Jerry. 

" So we went in, and he makes us at 
home. He's a bachelor, and lives all by 
himself in this desirable 'ouse. 

44 Well, I seen pretty quick that Jerry 
thinks the world of Gentleman. All that 
evening he's acting as if he's as pleased as 
Punch to have him there. Couldn't do 
enough for him. It was a bit of a//* right, I 
said to meself. It was, too. 

44 Next day we gets up late and has a good 
breakfast, and sits on the lawn and smokes. 
The sun was shining, the little birds was 
singing, and there wasn't a thing, east, west, 
north, or south, that looked like work. If 
I had been asked my address at that moment, 
on oath, I wouldn't have h^it-ited a second. 
I should have answered, 'No. i, Easy Street.' 
You see, Jerry Moore wan one of these slow, 
simple fellMANAH£NIV^SIl&uld tell in a 
moment what a lot he thought of Gentleman. 
Gentleman, you see, had a way with him. 

9 6 


Not haughty, he wasn't. More 
affable, 1 should call it. He 
sort of made you feel that all 
men was born equal, but that 
it was awful good of him to be 
talking to you, and that he 
wouldn't do it for everybody. 
It went down proper with 
Jerry Moore. Jerry would sit 
and listen to him giving his 
views on things by the hour. 
By the end of tne first day I 
was having visions of silting in 
that garden a white-haired old 
man and being laid out when 
my time should come, in Jerry's 
front room. 1 ' 

He paused, his mind evi- 
dently in the past, among the 
cigars and big breakfasts* 
Presently he took up his tale. 

"This here Jerry Moore was 
a simple sort of feller, Deafies 
are like that Ever noticed ? 
Not that Jerry was a real deafy. 
His hearing was a bit off, but 
he could foller you if you spoke 
to him nice and clear. Well, 
I was saying, he was kind of 
simple. Liked to put in his 
days pottering about the little 


garden he'd made for him- 
self, looking after his 
flowers and his fowls, and 
sit of an evening listening 
to Gentleman 'olding forth 
on Life. He was a philo- 
sopher, Gentleman was. 
And Jerry took everything 
he said as gospel He 
didn't want no proofs. J E 
and the King of Denmark 
would have been great 
pals* He just sat by w T ith 
his big blue eyes getting 
rounder every minute and 
lapped it up* 

* Now you'd think a 
man like that could be 
counted on, wouldn't you ? 
Would he want anything 
more ? Not he t you'd say. 
Vou T d be wrong. Believe 
me, there isn't a man on 
earth that fixed and con- 
tented but what a woman 
can't knock his old Para- 
dise into 'ash with one 

"It wasn't long before 
I begin to notice a change 
in Jerry, He never had 
been what you'd call 
a champion catch- 
as -catch -ca n tal k er , 
but now he was 
silenter than ever 
And he got a habit 
of switching Gentle- 
man off from his 
theories on Life in 
general to Woman 
in particular. This 
suited Gentleman 
just right. What he 
didn't know about 
Woman wasn't 

"Gentleman was 
too busy talking to 
have time to get 
suspicious, but I 
wasn't ; and one day 
I draws Gentleman 
aside and puts it to 
him straight. 
/Gentleman,' I says, 
Jerry Moore is in 
love! 1 

" Well, this was 



a nasty knock, of course, for Gentleman, 
He knew as well as I did what it would 
mean if Jerry was to lead home a blush- 
ing bride through that front door. It 
would be outside into the cold, hard world 
for the bachelor friends. Gentleman sees 
that quick, and his jaw drops. I goes on. 
1 All the time/ I says t 'that you're talking 
away of an evening Jerry's seeing visions ot 
a little woman sitting in your chain And you 
can bet we don T t enter into them visions. He 
may dream of little feet pattering about the 
bouse/ I says, * but they aren't ours ; and you 
can 'ave something on that both ways. Look 
alive t Gentleman/ I says, 'and think out 
some plan, or we might as well be padding 
the hoof now. 3 

" Well, Gentleman did what he could. In 
his evening discourses he started to give it to 
Wpman all he knew. Began 
to talk about Delilah* and 
Jezebels and Fools -the re- 
was and the rest of it, and 
what a mug a feller was to 
let a female into 'is cosy 
home, who'd only make him 
spend his days hooking her 
up, and his nights wonder- 
ing how to get back the 
blankets without 
waking her, My, he 
was crisp ! Enough 
to have given Romeo 
the jumps, you'd have 
thought But, lor 
It's no good talking 
to them when they've 
got it bad. 

" A few days later 
we caught him with 
the goods, talking in 
the road to a girl in a pink 

" I couldn't but admit that 
Jerry had picked one right 
from the top of the basket, 
This wasn't one of them 
languishing sort wot sits 
about in cosy corners and 
reads story-books, and don't 
care what's 'appening in the 
home so long as they find out 
what became of the hero in 
his duel with the Grand Duke. 
She was a brown, slim, wiry- 
looking little thing. You 
know. Held her chin up 
and looked you up and down 
with eyes the colour of Scotch 

whisky, as much as to say, * Well, what about 
it?' You could tell without looking at her, 
just by the feel of the atmosphere when she 
was near, that she had as much snap and go 
in her as Jerry Moore hadn't, which was a 
good bit. I knew, just as sure as I was 
standing there on one leg, that this was the 
sort of girl who would have me and Gentle- 
man out of that house about three seconds 
after the clergyman had tied the knot. 

"Jerry says, l These are my friends, Miss 
Tuxron— Mr. Bailey and Mr + Roach, They 
are staying with me for a visit. This is Miss 
Jane Tuxton,' he says to us, * I was just 
going to see Miss Tuxton home, 1 he says t 
sort of wistful * Excellent/ says Gentleman. 
'We'll come too.' And we all goes along. 
There wasn't much done in the way of con- 
versation. Jerry never was one for pushing 




out the words ; nor was I, 
when in the presence of the 
sect; and Miss Jane had bei 
chin in the air, as if she 
thought me and Gentleman 
was not needed in any way 
whatsoever. The only talk 
before we turned her in at 
the garden gate was done by 
Gentleman, who told a pretty 
long story about a friend ol 
his in Upper Sydenham who 
had been silly enough 
to marry, and had 
had trouble ever 

"That night, after 
we had went to bed, 
I said to Gentleman, 
* Gentleman/ I says, 
'what's going to U 
done about this ? 


We've got about as much chance, if Jerry 
marries that girl/ I says, 'as a couple of help- 
less pink chocolate creams at a schoolgirls' 
picnic/ 'If/ says Gentleman. 'He ain't 
married her yet. That is a girl of character. 
Jack* Trust me. Didn't she strike you as a 
girl who would like a man with a bit of devil 
*n him, a man with some go in him, a you-be- 

darned kind of man ? 
Hoes Jerry fill the bill? 
He's more like a door- 
mat with ** Welcome" written on 
it, than anything else.' 

Well> we seen a good deal oF 
Miss Jane in the next week or so. 
We keeps Jerry under — what's it 
the heroine says in the melodrama? 
'Oh, cruel, cruel, S.P. something/ 
Espionage, that's it. We keeps 
Jerry under espionage, and when- 
ever he goes trickling round after the girl, we 
goes trickling round after him. 

4< ' Things is running our way/ says Gentle- 
man to me, after one of these meetings* 
*That girl is getting cross with Jerry. She 
wants Reckless Rudolf, not a man who stands 
and grins when other men butt in on him and 
his girl Mark my words, J ark. She'll get 
tired of Jerry, and go off and marry a soldier, 
and we'll live happy ever after/ * Think so ? p 
I says. 'Sure of it/ says Gentleman. 

11 It was the Sunday after this that Jerry 
Moore announces to us, wriggling, that he 
has an engagement to take supper with Jane 
and her folks. He'd have liked to have 
slipped away secret, but we was keeping him 
under espionage too crisp for that, so he has 
to tell us. ' Excellent/ says Gentleman. * It 
will be a great treat to Jack and myself tu 
meet the family. We will go along with you/ 
So off we all goes, and pushes our boots in 
sociable fashion under the Tux ton table, I 

^VintWhi„ e rsLfs 

sticking out a foot, and Jerry didn't dare look 



at her. Love's young dream, I muses to my- 
self, how swift it fades when a man has the 
nature and disposition of a lop-eared rabbit ! 

"The Tuxtons was four in number, not 
counting the parrot, and all male. There 
was Pa Tuxton, an old feller with a beard 
and glasses ; a fat uncle ; a big brother, who 
worked in a bank and was dressed like Moses 
in all his glory ; and a little brother with a 
snub nose, that cheeky you'd have been sur- 
prised. And the parrot in its cage and a fat 
yellow dog. And they're all making them- 
selves pleasant to Jerry, the wealthy future 
son-in-law, something awful. It's ' How are 
the fowls, Mr. Moore ? ' and ' A little bit of 
this pie, Mr. Moore; Jane made it,' and 
Jerry sitting there with a feeble grin, saying 
'Yes' and 'No' and nothing much more, 
while Miss Jane's eyes are snapping like Fifth 
of November fireworks. I could feel Jerry's 
chances going back a mile a minute. I felt 
as happy as a little child that evening. I 
sang going back home. 

"Gentleman's pleased, too. c Jack,' he 
says to me when we're in bed, 'this is too 
easy. In my most sanguinary dreams I 
hardly hoped for this. No girl of spirit's 
going to love a man who behaves that way 
to her parents. The way to win the heart of 
a certain type of girl,' he says, beginning on 
his theories, ' the type to which Jane Tuxton 
belongs, is to be rude to her family. I've 
got Jane Tuxton sized up and labelled. Her 
kind wants her folks to dislike her young 
man. She wants to feel that she's the only 
one in the family that's got the sense to see 
the hidden good in Willie. She doesn't want 
to be one of a crowd hollering out what a 
nice young man he is. It takes some pluck 
in a man to stand up to a girl's family, and 
that's what Jane Tuxton is looking for in 
Jerry. Take it from one who has studied 
the sect,' says Gentleman, 'from John o' 
Groat's to Land's End, and back again.' 

" Next day Jerry Moore's looking as if he'd 
only sixpence in the world and had swallowed 
it. 'What's the matter, Jerry?' says Gentle- 
man. Jerry heaves a sigh. 'Bailey,' he 
says, 'and you, Mr. Roach, I expect you 
both seen how it is with me. I love Miss 
Jane Tuxton, and you seen for yourselves 
what transpires. She don't value me ? not 
tuppence.' 'Say not so,' says Gentleman, 
sympathetic. 'You're doing fine. If you 
knew the sect as I do you wouldn't go by 
mere superficial silences and chin-tiltings. I 
can read a girl's heart, Jerry,' he says, patting 
him on the shoulder, ' and I tell you you're 
doing fine. All you want now is a little rapid 

work, and you win easy. To make the thing 
a cert,' he says, getting up, 'all you have to 
do is to make a dead set at her folks.' He 
winks at. me. ' Don't just sit there like you 
did last night. Show 'em you've got some- 
thing in you. You know what folks are: 
they think themselves the most important 
things on the map. Well, go to work. Con- 
sult them all you know. Every opportunity 
you get. There's nothing like consulting a 
girl's folks to put you in good with her.' 
And he pats Jerry on the shoulder again and 
goes indoors to find his pipe. 

"Jerry turns to me. ' Do you think that's 
really so?' he says. I says, 'I do.' 'He 
knows all about girls, I reckon,' says Jerry. 
'You can go by him every time,' I says. 
' Well, well,' says Jerry, sort of thoughtful." 

The waiter paused. His eye was sad and 
dreamy. Then he took up the burden of 
his tale. 

"First thing that happens is that Gentle- 
man has a sore tooth on the next Sunday, so 
don't feel like coming along with us. He 
sits at home, dosing it with whisky, and 
Jerry and me goes off alone. 

"So Jerry and me pikes off, and once 
more we prepares to settle down around the 
board. I hadn't noticed Jerry particular, but 
just now I catches sight of his face in the 
light of the lamp. Ever see one of these 
fighters when he's sitting in his corner before 
a fight, waiting for the gong to go? Well, 
Jerry looks like that ; and it surprises me. 

" I told you about the fat yellow dog that 
permeated the Tuxtons' house, didn't I ? 
The family thought a lot of that dog, though 
of all the ugly brutes I ever met he was the 
worst. Sniffing round and growling all the 
time. Well, this evening he comes up to 
Jerry just as he's going to sit down and 
starts to growl. Old Pa Tuxton looks over 
his glasses and clicks his tongue. ' Rover ! 
Rover ! ' he says, kind of mild. ' Naughty 
Rover; he don't like strangers, I'm afraid.' 
Jerry looks at Pa Tuxton, and he looks at 
the dog, and I'm just expecting him to say 
' No,' or ' Yes,' same as the other night, when 
he lets out a nasty laugh — one of them bitter 
laughs. ' Ho ! ' he says. ' Ho ! don't he ? 
Then perhaps he'd better get further away 
from them.' And he ups with his boot and 
— well, that dog hit the far wall. 

" Jerry sits down and pulls up his chair. 
' I don't approve,' he says, fierce, ' of folks 
keeping greal, fat, ugly^ bad-tempered yellow 
dogs thaJi stve a inuLsa.nce to all. I don't 
like it' 

"There was a silence you could have 



scooped out with a spoon. Have you ever 
had a rabbit turn round on you and growl ? 
That's how we all felt when Jerry outs with 
them crisp words. They took our breath 

" While we was getting it back again the 
parrot, which was in its cage, lets out a squawk. 
Honest, I jumped a foot in my chair. 

" J err y g ets U P ver y deliberate, and walks 
over to the parrot. 

" ' Is this a menagerie ? ' he says. ' Can't 
a man have supper in peace without an image 
like you starting to holler ? Go to sleep.' 

" We was all staring at him surprised, 
especially Uncle Dick Tuxton, whose par- 
ticular pet the parrot was. He'd brought him 
home all the way from some foreign parts. 

" ' Hello, Billy ! ' says the bird, shrugging 
his shoulders and puffing himself up. 
'R-r-r-r! R-r-r-r! 'lo, Billy! 'lo, 'lo, 'lo! 
R-r WAH!' 

"Jerry gives its cage a bang. 

" ' Don't you talk back at me,' he says, * or 
I'll knock your head off. You think because 
you've got a green tail you're someone.' And 
he stalks back to his chair and sits glaring at 
Uncle Dick. 

" Well, all this wasn't what you might call 
promoting an easy flow of conversation. 
Everyone's looking at Jerry, specially me, 
wondering what next and trying to get their 
breath, and Jerry's frowning at the cold beef, 
and there's a sort of awkward pause. Miss 
Jane is the first to get busy. She bustles 
about and gets the food served out, and we 
begins to eat. But still there's not so much 
conversation that you'd notice it. This goes 
on till we reaches the concluding stages, and 
then Uncle Dick comes up to the scratch. 

" ' How is the fowls, Mr. Moore ? ' he says. 

"'Gimme some more pie,' says Jerrv- 

" Uncle Dick repeats his remark. 

"'Fowls?' says Jerry. 'What do you 
know about fowls? Your notion of a fowl 
is an ugly bird with a green tail, a Wellington 
nose, and gimme a bit of cheese.' 

" Uncle Dick's fond of the parrot, so he 
speaks up for him. ' Polly's always been 
reckoned a handsome bird,' he says. 

" ' He wants stuffing,' says Jerry. 

" And Uncle Dick drops out of the talk. 

" Up comes big brother, Ralph his name 
was. He's the bank-clerk and a dude. He 
gives his cuffs a flick, and starts in to make 
things jolly all round by telling a story about 
a man he knows named Wotherspoon. Jerry 
fixes him with his eye, and, half-way through, 

" ' That waistcoat of yours is fierce,' he 

" ' Pardon ? ' says Ralph. 

" ' That waistcoat of yours/ says Jerry. 
1 It hurts me eyes. It's like an electric sign.' 

" ' Why, Jerry/ I says, but he just scowls 
at me and I stops. 

" Ralph is proud of his clothes, and he 
isn't going to stand this. He glares at Jerry 
and Jerry glares at him. 

" ' Who do you think you are ? ' says 
Ralph, breathing hard. 

" ' Button up your coat/ says Jerry. 

" ' Look 'ere ! ' says Ralph. 

" ' Cover it up, I tell you/ says Jerry. ' Do 
you want to blind me ? ' Pa Tuxton in- 

" ' Why, Mr. Moore,' he begins, sort of 
soothing ; when the small brother, who's 
been staring at Jerry, chips in. I told you he 
was cheeky. 

" He says, ' Pa, what a funny nose Mr. 
Moore's got ! ' 

" And that did it. Jerry rises, very slow, 
and leans across the table and clips the kid 
brother one side of the ear-'ole. And then 
there's a general imbroglio, everyone standing 
up and the kid hollering and the dog barking. 

" ' If you'd brought him up better/ says 
Jerry, severe, to Pa Tuxton, 'this wouldn't 
ever have happened.' 

" Pa Tuxton gives a sort of howl. 

" ' Mr. Moore/ he yells, ' what is the 
meaning of this extraordinary behaviour ? 
You come here and strike me child ' 

" Jerry bangs on the table. 

" ' Yes/ he says, ' and I'd strike him again. 
Listen to me/ he says. ' You think just 
because I'm quiet I ain't got no spirit. You 
think all I can do is to sit and smile. You 
think — Bah ! You aren't on to the hidden 
depths in me character. I'm one of them 

still waters that runs deep. I'm Here, 

you get out of it ! Yes, all of you. Except 
Jane. Jane and me wants this room to have 
a private talk in. I've got a lot of things to 
say to Jane. Are you going ? ' 

"I turps to the crowd. I was awful 
disturbed. ' You mustn't take any notice/ 
I says. 'He ain't well. He ain't himself. 5 
When just then the parrot outs with another 
of them squawks. Jerry jumps at it. 

" 'You first/ he says, and flings the cage 
out of the window. ' Now you/ he says to 
the yellow dog, putting him out through the 
door. And then he folds his arms and 
scowls l^fflf ptf-J^ri h|f? ^U, | pptice suddenly that 
he's very big. "we looks at one another, and 
we begins to edge towards the door. All 



except Jane, who's staring at Jerry as if he's 
a ghost, 

" * Mr. Moore,' says Pa Tuxton, dignified, 
'we'll leave you. You're drunk.* 

" * I'm not drunk/ says Jerry, * I'm in 
love. 1 

it ain't in the man. Specially after what I 
said to him about the way he ought to 
behave. How could he have done so?' 
Just then in comes Jerry, beaming all over, 
'Boys/ he shouts^ 'congratulate me. It's 
all right. We've fixed it up. She says she 
hadn't known me properly before. She says 
she'd always reckoned me a sheep, while a.11 
the time I was one of them strong, silent 
men/ He turns to Gentleman " 

The man at the other end of the room 
was calling for his bill. 

"All right, all right/ 1 said the waiter. 
u Coming ! He turns to Gentleman/' he 

** * Jane/ says Pa 
Tux ton, 'come with 
me, and leave this 
ruffian to himself 3 

li * Jane/ says Jerry, * stop here, 
and come and lay your head on my 

u ' Jane/ says Pa Tuxton, 'do you 
hear me ? ' 

" ( jane/ says Jerry, ' Fm waiting/ 

" She looks from one to the other 
for a spell, and then she moves to 
where Jerry's standing, 

" * Til stop/ she says, sort of quiet. 

" And we drifts out." 

The waiter snorted. 

**I got back home, quick as I could," 
he said, " and relates the proceedings to 
Gentleman. Gentleman's rattled. ' I don't 
believe it/ he says, ' Don't stand there and 
tell me Jerry Moore did them things. Why, 

went on rapidly, "and 
he says, ' Bailey, I 
owe it all to you, be- 
cause if you hadn't 
told me to insult her 
folks- — J " 

He leaned on the 

traveller's table and 

fixed him with an 

eye that pleaded for 


* 4, Ow about that?" he said. u Isn't that 

crisp ? ' Insult her folks ! ' Them was his 

very words* ' Insult her folks ! J ,] 

The traveller looked at him inquiringly. 
" Can you heat it ? ' f said the waiter* 
"I tittlfeHiMMIW are saying/' said 
the traveller, "If it is important, write it 
on a slip of paper* I am stone-deaf." 





^"low AVomen Would Look in Uniform, 

Dwt'r 6Vr«-/ Sf?tdJ£M t and ilxtna. 

Skould Women 


as Solai 



LEASE, Your Majesty," 
said a recruiting-sergeant 
to the Great IY< du i. k, 
" this person cannot 

" Because, sire, we 
have discovered she is a woman." 
" Can she fight ? " 

u She fought us like ten devils, sire." 
H Draft her into the ranks," returned the King, 

It was the Empress Marie Ivanovna who anticipated 
a certain French wit in dividing mankind into four sexes 
—men, women, men- women, and women-men, "If they 
cannot spin, let them drill If they cannot win husbands, 
let them win battles. Go tell them I will be their 

The emissaries departed, only to return after a week 
to say that they had only secured the names of twelve eligible women. They had noted 
hundreds of promising recruits, but, on close inquiry, found the rest were either engaged, 
about to be engaged, or were already secretly married. INDIANA UNIVERSITY 

Many instances there have been of women who have borne arms with credit, and who 
discipline and marksmanship have been no whit inferior to a man. There are, in 



modem times, the examples of Hannah 
Snell, who long served in old King George's 
armies valorously, and, more recently, the 
Greek heroine, Helena Cons tan tin ides, whose 
family had suffered much from the Turks, 
On her arrival in Athens 
volunteers crowded round 
her, and she finally left 
for the seat of war with 
a band of two thousand 
five hundred enthusiasts, 
afterwards fighting vali- 
antly for Greece, 

But now that through- 
out the kingdom women 
have gone in for all the 
physical exercises formerly 
monopolized by men — 
when they not only ride, 
shoot, fence, and box, but 
are equal to long-distance 
walking ; when women's 
rifle - clubs are being 
formed everywhere, the 
question is to-day more 
pertinent than ever, 
" Should Women Serve 
as Soldiers ? " 

"Yes/* say the ad- 
vanced section* " No," 
cry the others. As one woman writes: 
*' Brute force is no longer necessary to win 
battles. Science enables women to be the 
equal of men in war. Only a few weeks ago 
I saw the tiniest woman in the world set 
the whole million-horse- 
power of Niagara in 
motion by simply touch- 
ing a button. Soldier- 
ing is no longer a 
question of brawn and 

It was Louise Rose 
who, forty years ago, 
first startled the women 
of America by her mani- 
festo, " Why should not 
vomen fight for their 
country ? " 

** Are we ph ysical 1 y 
incapable? I will not 
quote the example of 
the Amazons, of Boa- 
dicea, or of Joan of Arc. 
I call upon the spirits 
of the women of the 
French Revolution, the 
Polish Revolution, the 
American Revolution, 


" If itn-v «in husli-Liid?., Ift ibcin '.vi:i 


women who fought shoulder to shoulder with 
their brothers for freedom, to say whether 
a woman may not strike as strong a blow 
as a man* We women must face the terrible 
truth that Right rests on Force, and that if 
we show mankind that 
we are prepared to sally 
forth in armed phalanx, 
we shall secure what we 
want — political equality 
with men, Sisters, arm 
yourselves, form ranks, 
show that you are not to 
be trifled with, that you 
are not unworthy de- 
scendants of the women 
who have defended their 
homes and their honour 
in a hundred wars ! JJ 

What to - day is the 
opinion of high male 
military authorities, as 
well as of militant women 
themselves, on the prac- 
ticability of women serving 
as soldiers ? There is 
said to be more than one 
eminent general who is 
in favour of women train- 
ing for war. If so, they 
are chary of committing themselves* 

The opinions of several eminent soldiers 
and well-known women on the subject are 
given below. To each of these a letter 
was sent, containing three questions, which 

were as follow : — 

1* Do you think it 
possible for a woman 
ever to be a soldier — 
supposing her to be 
single, healthy, and 
active ? 

2. Would you be 
ready to serve your 
country, as French- 
women served France 
in 1870? {This to the 
ladies only.) 

3, Do you think it 
undignified and im- 
proper for girls to drill 
and handle a rifle for 
purposes of defence ? 

I f roft r do you th ' nk girls 
I i^-rgljOHld undergo physical 

t traSHng in the same, 

way as boys ? 



Field - Marshal 
Lord Roberts writes 
to us as under ; — 

" I do not think it 
practicable or desir- 
able that women 
should serve their 
country under arms. 
It would also be un- 
necessary if the 
country adopts, as 
all other European 
countries have 
adopted, the prin- 
ciple of universal 
military training for 
its young men* 

" I think girls 
should undergo phy- 
sical training in the 
same way as boys — 
not with a view to 
doing men's work, 
but in order to fit 
themselves to be the 
mothers of a strong 
and healthy race. 

"I also think it 
highly desirable that 
all women should be 
trained in first aid 

and nursing, for such knowledge would be 
of great use to the community." 

Here, too, is the opinion of another high 
authority : — 

"Sir John French is 
convinced that, should cir- 
cumstances arise necessi- 
tating the employment of 
armed women, they would 
no doubt acquit them- 
selves with their cus- 
tomary courage and un- 
selfishness. At the same 
time he would point out 
that other fields are open 
to women for the display of 
patriotism and usefulness 
in time of war, such as the 
care and attendance of 
sick and wounded, when 
their services would un- 
doubtedly be of great 


a frorn a most thrilling 
and entertaining ex- 
hibition of muscle 
and endurance at 
Bedford College, 
Liverpool I asked 
myself as I 
witnessed their 
spirited evolu tions, 
which would have 
spread consternation 
in my youth, * Why 
should women such 
as these take shelter 
under the mantle of 
sex?' Women will 
always have their 
limitations, but there 
is no reason why, if 
military duty were 
exacted of them, they 
should shrink from 
fulfilling it." 

Viscountess Har- 
berton writes : — 

" I can see no 
reason why those 
women who wish to 
do so should be de- 
barred on account of 
their sex. Every occupation should be open 
to all, and the great aim of the people ought 
to be in getting rid of the absurd* habit of 
ronsidiTiiiL; si/x luTon; the common humanity 
of individuals. The pre- 
sent way of reversing this 
is disastrous alike to 
morals and the health of 
the nation, 

"There can be nothing 
either undignified or im- 
proper in girls learning to 
shoot, or in their being 
drilled. What is undignified 
and improper is wearing 
the outrageous, hamper- 
ing, and grotesque clothing 
women are apparently 
content to adopt, at the 
suggestion of those who 
wish to make money out 
of their inane objection 
to thinking out for them- 
selves what it means to be 

"I have just come/' 
writes a Woman's Rights 
leader, Mrs. M. E. Baxter, 

.^'^ ROSEi , n transmogrified into such 

i Sisters, arm yourselves, form rank*, sWurl'tHalN 1 Villi ■ r a i_* 

yuu are hoi to be trifled *iih h ^»MUnj^J^||kjp,wK^wS tORUS. Anything 
unworthy dewnrhnu of the wpmJPUfctf "Isivir M ^fc&E Jl » J[ V eS WOIXietl an 
defended their homes and their honour in a » , a 

hundred wars t " interest in their country 


io 5 

and actual active life can only be regarded 
as a boon to the whole race." 

Miss Violet Vanbrugh replies to our 
questions as follows : — 

" I think girls should undergo physical 
training in the same way as boys — if not 
quite so arduous. There can be nothing 
undignified or improper for girls to drill and 
learn how to handle a rifle for purposes of 
defence. Certainly, if I could be of any use, 
I would be ready to serve my country as the 
Frenchwomen served France in 1870 — and I 
think there are very few women in England 
who wouldn't." 

Mrs. H. M. Pryce- Jones, formerly Miss 
Vere Dawnay and a champion lady swimmer, 
sends the following views on the subject : — 

" Personally I think that, except in very 
rare instances, no woman could ever be 
really fitted for an active military career, but 
if every girl were to undergo a properly- 
organized and systematic training it would 
be of inestimable benefit to herself, and con- 
sequently to her country- The up-bringing 
girls have received during the last century 
has certainly helped to make them very 
much stronger physically, and far better able 
to withstand hardships and perils. 

"Any active pursuit which tends to in- 
crease physical development — I would place 
riding, swimming, and fencing high up on 
the list — ought to be warmly encouraged, as 
it should always be remembered that the 
nation of to-morrow depends upon the 
standard we set up for ourselves to-day. 

"By attending first-aid classes and, if 
possible, joining a branch of girl-scouts, 
which in itself provides a magnificent training 
for mind, body, and intelligence, girls would 
already be doing much to prove themselves 
of real value to their country. I would also 
like to see a miniature rifle-range in every 
village, and rifle competitions and shooting 
matches arranged in every town, not only for 
men and boys, but also for girls and women. 
Nothing promotes skill so much as healthy 
competition and rivalry, and it is a well-known 
saying that l Preparation for war is the only 
guarantee of peace.' 

" It seems to me that the old methods are 
still the best Men should go forth ready to 
fight for their homes and families, and women 
should speed them onward with brave faces 
and prayerful hearts. But as lack of pre- 
paration is the most fatal disaster that can 
befall any nation, and inertia and an unwise 
sense of security seem ever to have been our 

country's gravest danger, by every means in 
our power let us encourage girls as well as 
boys to train themselves to the highest 
possible standard of military efficiency." 

"One answer to your question," writes 
Miss Elizabeth Robins, the well-known 
actress and novelist, "is that some women 
do more difficult things even now than 
soldiering. Undoubtedly girls should undergo 
physical training. Whether, as you say Lord 
Roberts thinks, the training should be * in 
the same way as boys,' I do hot feel so cer- 
tain ; but my doubt has more to do with the 
flaws in boys' present training than any ques- 
tion of the capacity of girls. They need 
physical training of a rational sort even more 
desperately than boys do, just because it is 
still a question whether the girl should have 
any at all, and because her dress and her 
life generally are more deliberately artificial 
and handicapping than a boy's. 

" The question really comes to be, not can 
this or that woman repeat the prowess of 
some woman in the past, but can the standard 
of health and discipline be so raised that 
most women are as strong and efficient as 
Nature meant them to be ? 

" You ask whether it should be regarded as 
'undignified and improper for girls to drill 
and handle a rifle for purposes of defence ' ? 
Less undignified and improper for girls than 
for boys and men, because women are more 
at the mercy of brute force, and may be 
greater sufferers by it. You, however, were 
not thinking of individual danger, but whether 
in time of war women should help to defend 
their country. This is not really a sex ques- 
tion at all. If war is admissible, all the 
able-bodied should take their share. But it 
will be seen that women's growing physical 
strength will be applied to construction rather 
than to destruction." 

"There is, in my opinion," says Mrs. 
Rentoul Esler, the well-known writer, "no 
movement for the benefit of the human race in 
which some women are not qualified to take 
an active and helpful part. The virtuous 
woman is naturally a builder, and, therefore, 
would rather promote the arts of peace than 
of war ; but if justice demanded military 
defence for home and native land, such 
records as those of Boadicea, Joan of Arc, 
the Maid of Saragossa, and Maria Theresa 
of Austria leave no doubt in the average 
mind that a woman warrior is not necessarily 
either a foolish or an ineffectual figure. 

" In so far as military exercises are A 



physically beneficial, I see no reason why 
military drill should not be added to young 
women's gymnasia. In all probability airship 
destroyers will soon render all our present 
usages and paraphernalia of war obsolete, 

u In answer to your amusing question, 
whether or not I should be personally ready 

the greatest possible misfortune which could 
befall this or any other nation?" 

" Your question," writes Miss F, Osbaldis- 
ton, a champion hockey-player and all-round 
athlete, " is most timely, A great change has 
been coming over the physique of women 



to fight in an international war if England 
were invaded, I may say that if the men 
whom most of us have encouraged to prepare 
for national defence fell in the cause of 
justice, I think it would be better for the 
world that their women should step into 
their vacant places and fall too, rather than 
await such other fate as life usually awards to 
the bereaved women of the beaten/' 

"Women have already, in various countries, 
proved their capacity as soldiers/' writes Mrs, 
Wolsten holme- Elm Y 3 a Suffragist leader, 
li but I think very few English women or men 
would think it desirable that a woman in her 
suventy-seventh year, who has already served 
her country in many important ways, should 
at that age take up the profession of arms- 

"With regard to Lord Roberts's view that 
'girls should undergo physical training in 
the same way as boys/ 1 reply that military 
training is not necessarily essential to the 
finest physical development of cither man or 
woman. May I add that I should regard 
anv large development of the lust for war as 

within the last twenty-five years. Men seem 
to me to be growing smaller and weaker; 
women taller, stronger* and more athletic. 
The old phrase, 'The weaker sex/ is some- 
thing of a misnomer to one who studies 
crowds, especially up the river, where hun- 
dreds of narrow-chested men may be seen 
lolling about in boats propelled by tall, 
sinewy girls of double their physical strength 
and endurance, I am convinced women 
would, if drilled to use the rifle in ranks, 
give a very good account of themselves in 
battle. If force still has to be exercised in 
the world— and for one I deplore it — women 
can exert it as well as men, and should con- 
sider it their duty to do so. 

" A still greater argument for the employ- 
ment of women j now that men are declared 
to make the best and gentlest hospital nurses, 
is that there are just one million more women 
in Great ;, r %f|t|ajpf|, than men, and as these 
wome|^[jCf§^ci|t|^p.^ r - have husbands or 
maternal" cares, why "should they shirk their 
military duties in the event of conscription? 
I, for one, should not." 



Miss Ellaline Terriss writes : — 
11 1 think, should the necessity arise, that 
women, myself among them, would do their 
best to use rifles for purposes of defence, or 
do anything else that lay in their power, but 
for the present it appears to me more suitable 
that we should employ our talents in the sick- 
room or with the ambulance, where we can 
render perhaps as much aid as we could 
were we to impede the march of troops ; 
for certainly when marching orders arrived 
women could scarcely hope to keep up with 
men. Of course, I approve of girls under- 
going physical training as well as boys, but 
I fear we are sometimes inclined to overdo it, 
and I do not think Nature fitted us for the 
severe training that obtains at many places of 
education for girls. I think we can each do 
our part in life without conflicting ; certainly, 
men are more suited for the Army, while 
women are more in their element in a sick- 
room or a hospital ward." 

Miss Winifred Emery says : " I think 
it would be an excellent thing for girls to drill 
and learn to handle a rifle for purposes of 
defence, but I should not think it at all 
desirable for a woman to serve her country 
in the field. Surely it is sufficient for one 
sex to bring soldiers into the world ! " 

Miss Agnes Herbert, a champion lady 
rifle-shot, writes : — 

"No, I do not think it possible for a 
woman ever to be a soldier, and am not 
quite sure what the state of single 
blessedness has to do with the making of 
a warrior. Married women are proverbially 
more warlike than their unwedded sisters, 
being daily in the way of combativeness. 
Old maids rush in where widows fear to 
tread, but it would take more than the 
celibacy you suggest, the activity and the 
healthiness, to evolve a woman soldier. One 
in five hundred might make a colourable 
imitation of the real thing, but what would be 
her use if manufactured ? You cannot oppose 
men and women in battle. All Nature cries 
out against feuds between the sexes. There- 
fore our Amazons must needs be pitted 
against another regiment of militants, and by 
the time the C-O/s — women also, I presume 
— had got each side arranged and ready for 
action the reason for the dispute would stand 
forgotten — anger would have evaporated. 
Women, you know, the world over are so 
many Orientals as regards the value of 

"Another thing, too — women are not 

gregarious, and 'Soldiers are the only car- 
nivorous animals who must be gregarious/ 

" To convert our women into warriors 
would do much to ease the present over- 
crowded state of the marriage market, and 
solve the problem of * What to do with our 
girls.' In the event of war the mortality 
would be so great we should no longer be 
faced with this seven-women-to-one-man 
condition of affairs. 

" I think it would be a good idea for girls 
to undergo physical training in the same way 
as boys. Such a system might be of benefit 
mentally also. There is no doubt that the 
lower-class woman of England is a hopelessly 
unenlightened and unintelligent being, rungs 
below the man in the same sphere of life. 
This, presumably, is accounted for by training, 
as these ignorant women are the mothers of 
the male things whose brains so soon, and so 
far, outstrip those of all their feminine belong- 
ings. Our woman soldier could not be 
entirely recruited from the gentle or educated 
classes. The sisters of the postman, the 
policeman, of Tommy Atkins, do not possess 
a tithe of their brothers' acumen. This is 
a fact, and it were idle to pretend otherwise. 
Exceptions there are everywhere, but we must 
take the case en bloc. It would be dangerous 
to consider the average woman of the lower 
class trained to soldiering, even if she ap- 
peared to be a Wellington. In one moment, 
under some stress or difficulty, all the teach- 
ing and drilling of years would go for 

" I certainly do not think it undignified 
and improper for girls to drill and handle a 
rifle. I think it very essential and necessary. 
One never knows where one's lines may be 
cast, and it might be that one's daily food 
depended on a rifle. But the defence of the 
Homeland is another story. If ' the day/ of 
which the scaremongers tell us so much, 
ever arrives, the women of England will serve 
their country effectively in some capacity, 
I make no doubt, and in such strenuous case 
I am inclined to back 'the girl behind the 
man behind the gun ' against her more 
militant sister blazing away from the upper 
windows in defence of the Englishwoman's 

" Again, no. I am not ready to serve my 
country as a soldier, but I am willing to 
accompany the regiment of Amazons any- 
where as a war correspondent. The 'copy/ 

I feel cc| R ^ TOfFMF ° rth gathering -" 

Miss Ethel Irving writes to say that 
" she is entirely in agreement with Lord 



Roberts that girls should undergo physical 
training in the same way as boys. Also that 
women should be trained in the use of arms 
and would make very good soldiers, though 
they would require considerably more disci- 
pline than they have at present." 

Miss Marie George, of Drury Lane 
fame, writes : — 

" My opinion is that a woman is capable 
in an emergency of helping to protect her 
country the same as a man would ; also for 
her own self-protection every woman should 
learn to use firearms. But 1 do not agree 
that women are fit, or ever should he, for 
soldiers. A woman's place is her home, not 
the battlefield* Surely something Ought to 
be left for ( man * to do/' 

Miss Jessie Bat em an, another Drury 
Lane favourite and an actress of many parts, 
sends us the follow- 

11 1 do think that girls 
should undergo physical 
training in the same way 
as boys, provided they 
be single, healthy, and 
active. I do not regard 
it as undignified and 
improper for girls to 
drill and handle a rifle 
for purposes of defence. 
But I do think it would 
be a very sad thing for 
women to have to do 
so, even to serve their 
country. Soldiers should 
be men; theyare 
naturally more 'fitted 
for it. 

"Women should serve 
their country by nursing 
and by being active and 
strong — in their own 

Here is the answer 
sent by Miss Marie 
Stud holme: — 

" Were it necessary I 
would, of course, do 
my utmost to serve my 
country, but I hope my 
services will never be 
needed on an English 

"Honestly I confess 

From n Phdv, by Boytr *fr Itert, 
i[ Frenchwomen arc more ixwslutt, mov 
torn i>e ec tit than the women of uther naiiocm 

I prefer battling with weeds in my garden, 
fighting over croquet, or struggling with golf, 
to handling a rifle; still, if necessary, I would 
1 have a shot 1 at it, if the horrid thing didn't 
* have a shot ' at me first 

"I rather agree with Iris in *The Greek 
Slave 1 :— 

If I were a man— tho* the men declare 

They're extremely glad I'm nol one— 
A soldier I'd he with a sweetheart fair, 

For every soldier's got one 
I'd march to the war with a swelling breast, 

And the air of a hero dreaming, 
If only I knew that I looked my best. 
And that all the girls could see me. 
Oh, the foe Id whack 
Till he hit me hack ; 
Then I might begin to cry. 
Tho' perhaps it*s hardly right 
For a girl to want to fight, 
Vet Pd rather like to try." 

Finally, there is the published opinion of 
the great French actress on the subject 

li I remember when I 
first appeared as the Due 
de Reichstadt," declared 
Mme. Sarah Bern- 
hardt, "I thought to 
myself how little dis- 
advantage sex is to a 
woman who wishes to 
play a distinguished 
part, not merely on 
the stage, but in 
real life. Women are 
only weak when their 
characters are weak. 
Surely Louis XVI. did 
not think women were 
weak when battalions of 
them were surrounding 
his palace at Versailles, 
My experience has 
shown me that French- 
women are more reso- 
lute, more fearless, more 
competent than the 
women of other nations. 
They would not plead 
their sex in the face 
of the enemy. Just 
as Jeanne d'Arc was 
a born military leader, 
so, in case of a crisis 
to - day, many women 
would be found who, 

,i tTr . 'v >f tnen were pusillani- 

ffl** would cry with 

Macbeth: 'Give 

nut ple;id their wk in ihc face uf (he enemy." 


Tliey WCUld 

me the daggers 


A Story for Children. By E. NESBIT. 
Illustrated oy Spencer Pryge, 

Copyright, 1910, by E. Nesbit- .Bland. 

OU soon get used to things. 
It seemed quite natural and 
homelike to Philip to be 
awakened in bright early out- 
of-doors morning by the gentle 
beak of the parrot at his ear 
11 You got back all right, then ? " he said, 

" It was rather a long journey," said the 
parrot, " but I thought it better to come back 
by wing. The hippogriff offered to bring 
me ; he is the soul of courteous gentleness. 
But he was tired too. The Pretenderette is 
in jail for the moment, but I'm afraid shell 
get out again ; we're so unused to having 
prisoners, you see. And it's no use putting 

her on her honour because m 

" Because she hasn't any ? " Philip finished. 
" I wouldn't say /Aa/ t n said the parrot, 
"of anybody. I'd only say we haven't come 
across it What about breakfast ? " 

When the camel and the dogs had been 
served with breakfast the children and the 

parrot sat down to eat. And there were 
many questions to ask. The parrot answered 
some, and some it didn't answer, 

" Enough of this," said the parrot, at last ; 
"business before pleasure.' 1 

So they washed up the breakfast things in 
warm water obligingly provided by the camel. 

" And now/ J said the parrot, " we must 
pack up and go on our way to destroy the 
fear of the Dwellers by the Sea." 

The journey was not long* Quite soon 
they found a sort of ravine or gully in the 
cliff and a path that led through it* And 
then they were on the beach, very pebbly 
with small stones, and there was the home 
of the Dwellers by the Sea; and beyond it, 
broad and blue and beautiful, the sea by 
which they dwelt. 

The Dwelling seemed to be a sort of town 
of round-roofed buildings, more like lime- 
kilns than anything else, with arched doors 
leading to dark insider They were all built of 
tiny stones, such as lay on the beach. Beyond 
the huts or houses rose the castle, a vast 




rough structure, with towers and arches and 
buttresses and bastions and glacis and bridges, 
and a great moat all round it. 

" But I never built a city like that, did 
you ? " Lucy asked, as they drew near. 

" No," Philip answered ; " at least ... do 
you know, I do believe it's the sand castle 
Helen and I built last summer at Dymchurch. 
And those huts are the moulds I made of 
my pail — with the edges worn off, you 

Towards the castle the travellers advanced, 
the camel lurching like a boat on a rough 
sea and the dogs going with cat-like delicacy 
over the stones. They skirted large pools 
and tall rocks, seaweed-covered. Along a 
road broad enough for twelve chariots to 
have driven on it abreast, slowly they came 
to the great gate of the castle. And as they 
got nearer, they saw at every window heads 
leaning out, and every battlement, every 
terrace, was crowded with figures. And 
when they were quite near, by throwing 
their heads very far back, so that their necks 
felt quite stiff for a long time afterwards, the 
children could see that all those people 
appeared quite young, and seemed to have 
very odd and delightful clothes — just one 
garment from shoulder to knee, made, as it 
seemed, of dark fur. 

" What lots of them there are," said Philip. 
" Where did they come from ? " 

11 Out of a book," said the parrot. " Those 
are the islanders." 

" Then why," asked Philip, naturally, 
" aren't they on an island ? " 

" There's only one island, and no one is 
allowed on that, except two people who never 
go there. But the islanders are happy even 
if they don't live on an island — always happy, 
except for the great fear." 

Here the travellers began to cross one of 
the bridges over the moat — the bridge, in 
fact, which led to the biggest arch of all. It 
was a very rough arch, like the entrance to a 

And from out its dark mouth came a little 
crowd of people. 

" They're savages," said Lucy, shrinking 
till she seemed only an extra hump on the 
camel's back. 

They were indeed of a dark complexion, 
sunburnt in fact, but their faces were 
handsome and kindly. They waved friendly 
hands and smiled in the most agreeable and 
welcoming way. 

The tallest islander stepped out from the 
crowd. He was about as big as Philip. 

" Hush ! " said the parrot ; " the Lord High 

Islander is now about to begin the state 
address of welcome ! " 

He was. And this was the address :— 

" How jolly of you to come ! Do get 
down off that camel and come indoors and 
have some grub. Jim, you might take that 
camel round to the stable and rub him down 
a bit. You'd like to keep the dogs with you, 
of course. And what about the parrot ? " 

"Thanks awfully," Philip responded, and 
slid off the camel, followed by Lucy. " The 
parrot will make his own mind up ; he 
always does." 

They all trooped into the hall of the 
castle, which was more like a cave than a 
hall and very dark, for the windows were 
little and high up. As Lucy's eyes got used 
to the light she perceived that the clothes of 
the islanders were not of skins, but of sea- 

" I asked you in," said the Lord High 
Islander, a jolly-looking boy of about Philip's 
age, "out of politeness. But really it isn't 
dinner-time, and the meet is in half an hour. 
So unless you're really hungry ? " 

The children said : " Not at all." 

"You hunt, of course?" the Lord High 
Islander said. 

"We came here on business," the parrot 
remarked, and the happy islanders crowded 
round to see him. " These are Philip 
and Lucy. Claimants to the Deliverership. 
They are doing their deeds, you know," the 
parrot ended. 

Lucy whispered, "It's really Philip who 
is the Claimant, not me, only the parrot's so 

The Lord High Islander frowned. " We 
can talk about that afterwards," he said ; " it's 
a pity to waste time now." 

" What do you hunt ? " Philip asked. 

"All the different kinds of graibeestes and 
the vertoblancs and the blugraiwee when we 
can find him," said the Lord High Islander. 
" But he's very scarce. Pinkuggers are more 
common, and much bigger, of course. Well, 
you'll soon see." 

When they got out into the courtyard of 
the castle they found it full of a crowd of 
animals any of which you may find in the 
Zoo, or in your old Noah's Ark if it was a 
sufficiently expensive one to begin with, and 
if you have not broken or lost too many of 
the inhabitants. Each animal had its rider, 
and the party rode out on to the beach. 

"What tf itj|th^Ji>unt?" Philip asked the 
parrot, who had perched on his shoulder. 

" All the little animals in the Noah's Ark 
that hadn't any names," the parrot told him. 

T&Jl magic city. 


* J AU those are considered fair game* Halloa ! 
BlugTaiwee ! J ' it shouted, as a little grey 
beast with blue spots started from the shelter 
of a rock and made for the cover of a patch 
of giant seaweed. Then all sorts of little 
animals got up and scurried off into places 
of security- 

" There goes a vertoblanc," said the 
parrot, pointing to a bright green animal 
of uncertain shape whose breast and paws 
were white, "and there's a graibeeste." 

The graibeeste was about as big as a 
fox and had rabbit's ears and the unusual 
distinction of a tail corning out of his back 
just half-way between one end of him and 
the other. But there are graibeestes of all 
sorts and shapes. 

You know when people are making the 

« Tally Ho ! Jl " Hark forrad ! w " Voicks ! * 
were some of the observations now to be 
heard on every side as the hunt swept on, the 
blugraiwee well ahead. Dogs yapped, steeds 
galloped, riders shouted, the sun shone, the 
sea sparkled, and far ahead the blugraiwee 
ran, extended to his full length, like a grey 
straight line. He was killed five miles from 
the castle after a splendid run. And when 
a pinkugger had been secured^ and half-a- 
dozen graibeestes, the hunt rode slowly home. 

" We only hunt to kill and we only kill 
for food," the Lord High Islander said. 

"I see," said Philip* jogging along on his 
steed* " I say," he added, "you don't mind 
rny asking, how is it youVe all children 
here ? " 

" Well," said the Lord High Islander, "it's 

"EACH animal HAD ITS RIDER, and the party rode out on to the beach, 

animals for Noah's Arks they make the big 
ones first, elephants and lions and tigers and 
so on, and paint them as nearly as they can 
the right colour. Then they get weary of 
copying Nature and begin to paint the 
animals pink and green and chocolate colour, 
which in Nature ife not the case. These are 
the chock munks, the vertoblancs, and the 
prnkuggers. And presently the makers get 
sick of the whole business and make the 
animals any sort of shape and paint them all 
one grey —these are the graibeestes. And at 
the very end a guilty feeling of having been 
slackers comes over the makers of the Noah's 
Arks, and they paint blue spots on the last 
and littlest of the graibeestes to ease their 
consciences. This is the blugraiwee. Of 
course, he is very rare. 

ancient history, so I don't suppose it's true. 
But they say that when the Government had 
to make sure that we should always be happy 
troops of gentle islanders they decided that 
the only way was for us to be children. And 
we do have the most ripping time. And we 
do our own hunting and cooking, and wash 
up our own plates and things^ and for heavy 
work we have the M.A^'s. They're men 
who've had to work at sums and history and 
things at college so hard that they want a 
holiday. So they come here and work for 
us, and if any of us do want to learn any- 
thing the M,AA me handy to have about the 

place ^ |to|^p|tfelTV? **<* ^ything, 
poor things. They live in the huts, iheres 
always a long list waiting for their turn. Oh, 
yes, they wear the seaweed dress the same as 



we do. And they hunt on Tuesdays, Thurs- 
days, and Saturdays. They hunt big game, 
the fierce ambergris, which is grey with a 
yellow stomach, and the bigger graibeestes. 
Now we'll have dinner the minute we get in, 
and then we must talk about It." 

And after dinner the Lord High Islander 
took Lucy and Philip up on to the top of the 
highest tower, and the three lay in the sun 
eating toffee and. gazing out over the sea at 
the faint distant blue of the island. 

" The island where we aren't allowed to 
go," as the Lord High Islander sadly pointed 

"Now," said Lucy, gently, "you won't 
mind saying what you're afraid of? Don't 
mind telling us. We're afraid too ; we're 
afraid of all sorts of things quite often." 

"Speak for yourself," said Philip, but not 
unkindly. " I'm not so jolly often afraid as 
you seem to think. Go ahead, my Lord." 

"You might as well call me Billy," said 
the Lord High Islander; "it's my name." 

"Well, Billy, then. What is it you're 
afraid of ? " 

" I hate being afraid," said Billy, angrily ; 
" of course, I know no true boy is afraid of 
anything except doing wrong. One of the 
M.A.'s told me that. But the M.A.'s are 
afraid, too." 

"What of?" Lucy asked, glancing at the 
terrace below, where already the shadows 
were lengthening. 

" What we're afraid of," said Billy, abruptly, 
" is the sea. Suppose a great wave came and 
washed away the castle and the huts and the 
M.A.'s and all of us?" 

" But it never ha$> has it ? " Lucy asked. 

"No; but everything must have a begin- 
ning. I know that's true, because another of 
the M.A.'s told it me." 

" But why don't you go and live somewhere 
inland ? " 

" Because we couldn't live away from the 
sea. We're islanders, you know : we couldn't 
bear not to be near the sea. And we'd rather 
be afraid of it than not have it to be afraid 
of. But it upsets the Government, because 
we ought to be fuippy troops of gentle 
islanders, and you can't be quite happy if 
you're afraid. That's why it's one of your 
deeds to take away our fear." 

" It sounds jolly difficult," said Philip. 
" I shall have to think," he added, desperately. 
So he lay and thought, with the parrot preen- 
ing its bright feathers on the parapet of 
the tower, while Lucy and the Lord High 
Islander played cat's cradle with a long 
:hread of seaweed. 

"It's supper - time," said Billy at- last; 
" have you thought of anything ? " 

"Not a single thing," said Philip. 

" Well, don't swat over it any more," said 
Billy; "just stay with us and have a jolly 
time. You're sure to think of something, or 
else Lucy will. We'll act charades to-night." 

They did. The rest of the islanders were 
an extremely jolly lot, and all the M.A.'s 
came out of their huts to be audience. It 
was a charming evening and ended up with 
hide-and-seek all over the castle. 

To wake next morning on a bed of soft, 
dry, sweet-smelling seaweed, and to know 
that the day was to be spent in having a 
good time with the jolliest set of children 
she had ever met, was delightful to Lucy. 
Philip's delight was dashed by the knowledge 
that he must, sooner or later, think. But the 
day passed most agreeably. They all bathed 
in the rock pools, picked up shell-fish for 
dinner, played rounders in the afternoon, 
and in the evening danced to the music 
made by the M.A.'s, who most of them 
carried flutes in their pockets, and who were 
all very flattered at being asked to play. 

So the pleasant days went on. But Philip 
never could think of anything to take away 
the fear of the gentle islanders. 

It was on the sixth night that the first 
storm came. The wind blew and the sea 
roared, and the castle shook to its foundations. 
And Philip, awakened by the noise and the 
shaking, sat up in bed, and understood 
what the fear was that spoiled the happiness 
of the Dwellers by the Sea. 

" Suppose the sea did sweep us all away ? " 
he said. " And they haven't even got a 

And then, when he was quite far from 
expecting it, he did think of something. 
And he went on thinking about it so hard 
that he couldn't sleep any more. 

And in the morning he said to the 
parrot : — 

" I've thought of something, and I'm not 
going to tell the others, but I can't do it all 
by myself. Do you think you could get 
Perrin for me ? " 

" I will try, with pleasure," replied the 
obliging bird, and flew off without further 

That afternoon, just as a picnic tea was 
ending, a great shadow fell on the party, 
and next moment the hippogriff alighted 
with Mr, Perrin and the parrot on its back. 

" Oh, thank you," said Philip, and led 
Mr. Perrin away and began to talk to him 
in whispers as they walked. 



"in the evening they danced to the music made by 

J Mr. Perrin answered suddenly 
" I'm sorry, but I couldn't think 

"No, sir, 
and aloud, 
of it" 

" Don't you know h&m f " Philip asked. 

14 I know everything as is to be known in 
my trade," said Mr. Perrin, " but carpentry's 
one thing and manners is another, Not but 
what I know manners, too, which is why I 
won't be a party to no such a thing," 

"But you don't understand," said Philip, 
trying to keep up with Mr, Perrin' s long 
strides. " What I want to do is for you to 
build a Noah's Ark on the top of the highest 
tower. Then, when the sea's rough and the 
wind blows, all the Sea Dwellers can just get 
into their Ark and then they'll be quite safe, 
whatever baDoens*" 

"You said all that 
afore," said Mr. Perrin, 
"and I wonder at you, so 
I do." 

"J thought it was such 
a good idea," said poor 
Philip, in gloom. 

"Oh, the idea's all 
right/' said Mr. Perrin ; 
"there ain't nothing to 
complain of 'bout the 

" Then what is wrong? " 
Philip asked, impatiently. 
"You've come to the 
wrong shop," said Mr. 
Perrin, slowly- "I ain J t 
the man to take away 
another chap's job, not 
if he was to be in the 
humblest way of business, 
but when it comes to slap- 
ping the Government in 
the face — well, there, 
Master Pip, I wouldn't 
have thought ft of you. 
It's as much as my place 
is worth," 

" Look here," said 
Philip, stopping short in 
despair, " will you tell me 
straight out why you won't 
help me? tf 

** I'm not agoing to go 
building Arks at my time 
of life," said Mr. Perrin, 
" Mr. Noah'd break his 
old heart, so he would, if 
I was to take on his job 
over his head," 

** Oh, you mean I ought 
to ask him?" 
"Course you ought to ask him, I don't 
mind lending a hand under his directions, 
acting as foreman like, so as to make a good 
job of it, But it's him you must give your 
order to*" 

The parrot and the hippogriff between 
them managed to get Mr, Noah to the castle 
by noon of the next day. 

11 Would you have minded," Philip imme- 
diately asked him, " if I'd had an Ark built 
without asking you to do it ?" 

"Well," said Mr, Noah, mildly, "I might 
have been a little hforJrn I have had some 


He approved of Philip's idea, and he 

and Perrin were soon busy making plans, 

calculating strains, and selecting materials. 

ii 4 


In the evening Mr, Noah made Philip a 
Baron, it being decided that killing the lions 
was to count as one of the Deeds. 

Then Philip made a speech to the islanders 
and explained his idea* There was a great 
deal of cheering and shouting, and everyone 
agTeed that an Ark on the topmost tower 
would meet a long- felt want, and that, when 
once that Ark was there, fear would for 
ever be a stranger to every gentle island 

workmen — the M.A/s, of course* And soon 
the sound of saw and hammer mingled with 
the plash of waves and cries of sea birds, 
and gangs of stalwart M.A.'s in their seaweed 
tunics bent themselves to the task of shaping 
great timbers, and hoisting them to the top 
of the highest tower, where other gangs, 
under Mr* Noah's own eye, reared a 
scaffolding to support the Ark while the 
building went on* 
The children were not allowed to help, 


ireat work of BuSiriipiwifaaum" 

thev loved looking c 

>W THE Gfl 


And now the great work of building began. but they loveH "looking on, and almost felt 
Mr. Perrin kindly consented to act as fore- that, if they looked on earnestly enough, 
man, and *x*t trv work A whole* armv nf thev must, in some strange mvfttPrirme; «rnv 



be actually helping. You know the feeling, 
I dare say. 

The hippogriff, who was stabled in the 
castle, flew up to wherever he was wanted, to 
assist in the hauling. Mr. Noah only had to 
whisper a magic word in his ear and up he 
flew. But what that magic word was the children 
did not know, though they asked often enough. 

And now, at last, the Ark was finished. 
The scaffolding was removed, and there was 
the great Noah's Ark, firmly planted on the 
topmost tower. It was a perfect example of 
the Ark-builder's craft. Its boat part was 
painted a dull red, its sides and ends were 
blue, with black windows, and its roof was 
bright scarlet, painted in lines to imitate tiles. 
No least detail was neglected — even to the 
white bird painted on the roof, which you 
must have noticed in your own Noah's Ark. 

A great festival was held, speeches were 
made, and everyone who had lent a hand in 
the building — even the humblest M.A. — was 
crowned with a wreath of fresh pink and 
green seaweed. Songs were sung, and the 
Laureate of the Sea Dwellers, a young M.A. 
with pale blue eyes and no chin, recited an 
ode beginning : — 

Now that we have our Noble Ark, 

No more we tremble in the dark 

When the great seas and the winds cry out, 

For we are safe without a doubt. 

At undue risings of the tide, 

Within our Ark we'll safely hide, 

And bless the names of those who thus 

Have built a painted Ark for us. 

There were three hundred and seventeen 
more lines, very much like these, and every- 
one said it was wonderful, and the Laureate 
was a genius, and how did he do it, and what 
brains, eh ? and things like that. 

Philip and Lucy had crowns too, and 
Philip was made an Earl. The Lord 
High Islander moved a vote of thanks 
to Philip, who modestly replied that it was 
nothing, really, and anybody could have 
done it. And a spirit of gladness spread 
about among the company, so that everyone 
was smiling and shaking hands with every- 
body else, and even the M.A.'s were making 
little polite old jokes, and slapping each other 
on the back and calling each other "old 
chap," which was not at all their habit in 
ordinary life. The whole castle was decor- 
ated with garlands of pink and green seaweed 
like the wreaths that people were wearing, 
and the whole scene was the gayest and 
happiest you can imagine. 

And then the dreadful thing happened. 

Philip and Lucy were standing in their 
seaweed tunics — for, of course, they had, 

since the first day, worn the costume of the 
country — on the platform in the courtyard. 
Mr. Noah had just said : — 

" Well, then, we will enjoy this memorable 
day to the very end and return to the city 
to-morrow," when a shadow fell on the 
group. It was the hippogriff, and on its 
back was — someone. Before anyone could 
see who that someone was, the hippogriff 
had flown low enough for that someone to 
catch Philip by his seaweed tunic and to 
swing him off his feet and on to the hippo- 
griff's back. Lucy screamed, Mr. Perrin 
said, " Here, I say, none of that ! " and 
Mr. Noah said, " Dear me ! " And they all 
reached out their hands to pull Philip back. 
But they were all too late. 

44 1 won't go. Put me down," Philip 
shouted. They all heard that. And also 
they heard the answer of the person on the 
hippogriff — the person who had snatched 
Philip on to its back. 

44 Oh, won't you, my lord ? We'll soon 
see about that," the person said- 
Three people there knew that voice, four 
counting Philip, six counting the dogs. The 
dogs barked and growled, Mr. Noah said, 
" Drop it ! " and Lucy screamed, " Oh, no ! 
oh, no ! it's that Pretenderette." The parrot 
with great presence of mind flew up into the 
air and attacked the ear of the Pretenderette, 
for, as old books say, it was indeed that 
unprincipled character, who had broken from 
prison and once more stolen the hippogriff. 
But the Pretenderette was not to be caught 
twice by the same parrot. She was ready for 
the bird this time, and as it touched her ear 
she caught it in her motor veil, which she 
must have loosened beforehand, and thrust it 
into a wicker cage that hung ready from the 
saddle of the hippogriff, who hovered on his 
wide white wings above the crowd of faces 

44 Now we shall see her face," Lucy thought, 
for she could not get rid of the feeling that 
if she could only see the Pretenderette's face 
she would recognize it. But the Pre- 
tenderette was too wily to look down un- 
veiled. She turned her face up and she 
must have whispered the magic word, for the 
hippogriff rose in the air and began to fly 
away with incredible swiftness across the sea. 
44 Oh ! what shall I do?" cried Lucy, wring- 
ing her hands. You have often heard of 
people wringing; their hands. Lucy, I assure 
you, really did wring hers. 4< Oh, Mr. Noah, 
what will she do with him ? Where will she 
take him ? What shall I do ? How can T 
find him again ? " 



1JLE HilTUoKM 1- UO.ifc IN TliK AIR. 

" I deeply regret, my dear child," said Mr. 
Noah s " that I find myself quite unable to 
answer any single one of your questions." 

"But can't I go after him?" Lucy per- 

"I am sorry to say/' said Mr. Noah, "that 
we have no boats ; the Prctenderette has 
stolen our one and only hippogriff, and none 
of our camels can fly/' 

u But what can I do?" Lucy stamped her 
foot in her agony of impatience, 

"Nothing, my child," Mr. Noah aggrava- 
tingly replied, " except to go to bed and get 
a good night's rest To-morrow we will 
return to the city and see what can be 
done. We must consult the oracle." 

" But can't we go now ? " said Lucy, 

u No oracle is worth consulting till it's had 
its night's rest," said Mr. Noah, "It is a 
three days 1 journey. If we started now— see, 
it is already dusk — wc should arrive in the 
middle of the night. We will start early in 
the morning." *-\zec 

(To ht 

But early in the morning there was no 
starting from the castle of the Dwellers by 
the Sea. There was indeed no one to start, 
and there was no castle to start from. 

A young blugraiwee, peeping out of its 
hole after a rather disturbed night to see 
whether any human beings were yet stirring 
or whether it might venture out in search of 
yellow periwinkles, which are its favourite 
food, started, pricked its spotted ears, looked 
again, and disdaining the cover of the rocks 
walked boldly out across the> beach. For 
the beach was deserted. There was no one 
there. No Mr, Noah, no Lucy, no gentle 
islanders, no M, A,'s, and, what is more, there 
were no huts and there was no castle. All 
was smooth, plain, bare, sea-combed beach, 

For the sea had at last risen. The fear of 
the Dwellers had been justified. Whether 
the sea had been curious about the Ark no 
one knows, no one will ever know. At any 
rate, the sea had risen up and swept away 
from the b**ach every trace of the castle, the 

h ; ls > *0MmM Hved there - 

con finned.} 


A Page of Puzzles. By Henry E. Dudeney. 



HIS is a modem version, with a difference, of an 
old puzzle of the same name, Number twenty* 
one cards, I, 2, 3, etc., up to 21, and place 
them in a circle in the particular order shown in tbe 
l I lust rii ion. These cards represent mice* You start 
from any card, calling that card " one," and count, 
41 Que, two, three," etc*, in a clockwise direction, 
and when your count agrees with the number on the 

card j you have 
made a 
"catch," and 
you remove 
the curd. 
Then start at 
the next card, 
calling that 
14 one," and 
try again to 
make another 
4t catch." And 
so on. Sup- 
posing you 
start at 18, 
calling that 
card " one," 
your first 
"catch" will be J 9. Remove 19 and your next 
** catch" is 10. Remove ro and your next "catch" 
is 1. Remove the 1, and if you count up to 21 {you 
tnuat never go beyond), you cannot make another 
4 * catch." Now, the ideal is to " calch T ' all the twenty- 
one mice, but this is not here possible, and if it were 
it would merely require twenty -one different trials, at 
the most, to succeed, But the reader may make any 
two cards change places before he begins- Thus, you 
can change the 6 with the 2, or the 7 with the II, or 

any other pair. This can be done in several ways so 
as to enable you to " catch "all the twenty one mice, 
if you then start at the right place, You may never 
pass over a " catch " ; you must always remove tbe 
card and start afresh. 


This was sent to 
me some time ago 
by Mr, Sam Loyd, 
the prince of chess 
problem composers. 
He made it to re- 
present the letter 
(i N :7 as a compli- 
ment to f Sir George 
Newnes, who was 
at that time on a 
visit to the United 
States. White mates 
in two moves. 

There recently appeared in * l Nouvelles Annates de 
Math e" mat iques the following puzzle as a modifica- 
tion of one of my ** Canterbury Puzzles." Arrange 
the nine digits in three groups of two, three, and four 
digits, so that the first two numbers when multiplied 
together make the third. Thus 12 x 4ft} -— 5,796, 
I now also propose to include the cases where there 
are one, four, and four digits, such as 4 x 1,738 = 
6,952. Can you find all the possible solutions in 
both cases? 

[The answers to the above puzzles, together with 
some new posers, will t>e given in the next number of 
The Strand Magazine.] 

Solutions to Last Mooth'a Puzzles, 

If we remove the ace, the remaining cards- 
may be divided into two groups (each adding 
tip alike) in four ways; if we remove 3, there 
are three ways ; if 5, there are four ways ; if 7, 
there are three ways; and if we remove o, there 
are four ways of making two equal groups. There 
arc thus eighteen different ways of grouping, and 
if we take any one of these and keep the odd 
card (that I have called "removed") at the head 
of the column, then one set of numhers can be 
varied in order in twenty -four ways in the column 
and the other four twenty- four ways in the horizontal, 
or together they may be varied in 
24 > 24 = 576 ways. And as there are 
eighteen such cases, we multiply this 
numtier by 1 8 and get 10,368, the 
correct number of ways of placing 
the cards. As this numlser includes 
the reflections, we must divide by 
2, but we have also to remember 
that every horizontal row can 
change places with a vertical row, 
necessitating our multiplying by 2 ; 
«o one operation cancels the 















































The number of children must be even, and either 
two, six, or fourteen. But there was an equal number 
of "boys and girls/' and one boy and one girl are 
not li boys and girls." Therefore two is excluded. 
In the case of fourteen, each child must receive one 
halfpenny orange only ; but one orange is not 
"oranges/' We are, therefore, driven back on our 
third case, which exactly fulfils the conditions. Three 
boys and three girls each receive one halfpenny orange 
and two three- a- penny oranges, the value of which is 
together one penny and one -sixth, or one-sixth of 
seven pence* 

This is quite easy, because the 
number of squares in the side (7) is a 
prime number — a number that has nn 
exact divisor except 1 and itself. It 
will he seen in the illustration that we 
h iv -f:Iv tu .siLttr the woid M Strand " 

is two squares farther to the right lhar 
the one at which we started in the row 
immpflifttelv above it. 


[ We shall be glad to receive Contributions to (his section, and to pay far suck as are accepted.] 


THIS photograph, taken by myself, represents a 
theatrical poster which was exhibit*!*] on one 
of the hoardings in the town of Preston, advertising 
the drama, li His Dishonoured Wife/ 3 which was 
about to occupy the boards at the Prince's Theatre. 
The mistake is obvious* the bill-poster having mixed 
the sheets on which it was prinLed ; but many 

people on seeing the poster were prompted lo ask, 
" What sort of a wife it that ?"— Mr, A, J. Laing, 
School House, Charnock Richard, near Chorley 


IS there anything out of the ordinary to he noticed 
in this drawing? Perhaps not, at first sight; 
but a careful study of it will show that it is drawn 
throughout in one continuous line, — Mr. Charles 
Underbill, Fair View, St. Thomas's Hill, Canterbury* 


I^HE object-lesson here shown was provided by 
my brother, who, after swimming to the buoy, 
put his feet into the centre of it and then let himself 
hang head downwards in the water. The photograph 
was taken in St, Qsyth Creek, where the water was 
ten feet in depth. I wonder whether any other 
Strand readers have seen such an act performed >— 
Mr. Douglas N. Wend, Riverside, St, Osyth, Col- 


TH E accom- 
photograph was 
taken at a burial- 
ground of iheO we- 
ek ay no Indians, on 
O week ay no I,ake, 
British Columbia* 
The \">\ lu-lii liy 
the £i male" figure 
contains the body 
of a child, while 


Ihii jbntv** jj drawn l 

tn one conttftuouj ttflt+ \ 

the attitude of the "female " figure 
si i i- we that il has served a similsu 
[,vbnt the bo* has dfeap- 
The carved animal in the 
centre is supposed to protect the 
remains* — Mr. R. G. Hutchison, 
Rivers Inlet. British Columbia. 



A Warning to all Sinner.s, for by all Writers the 

World is near an End, 

JB |"*HE lite Dr. Hatty inform m of 1 great Comet off, ocrt allowed one hondrvd and twenty Teari to 

1 that kfiied to appear hbie Year t7^B: What repent in, fo the Number of Year* in the fifft 

on we think of thh Comet bat prepare porfclTes »- World amoonted to 1773 Ycar^ O let ail Chi Ml i- 

p tuft the Time appointed, and to praf to And to ins oififider and repent, far we know nor when 

tile rbit vehement and faJpntrrcoUt Ball of Fife rhe HodT»v ttrii great Comer, thh fdphoreou* Ball 

from hi In €rnt£i the 6th and 7th Chapter*, you of Fire, what on we think oMr, that is 1 thou find 

*fll find about 1650 Y*m alter **e World* Man* Tfmei hotter than a red hot Cannon Bill, O God 

kfod crew fb hm^htr and wiefcrd, that God fpeajt- of hn infinise Mercy tract that at! Chf ifHtnt would 

iot after the Marnier of Man, and Lid, that it fe- confider and rvptai of their former Sim, »nd brine, 

prnretj and &ne?rd him that be hid mid* Man up- their Children op in the Fear of G^d, for hf the 

on Earth* lo fo treat a Degree of Corruption and Number of dot Year* with the old World, we have 

Wicked □ eft were People arrived, that every liru|j- little more than firietn Year* to count v and look 

iunoa of the Tboof htt of their Heart* were evil into the Gospel of St. Mmtkcw* the 14th Chapter, 

conrinifiliy : God therefore relotred to deftroy Man- and the lift Verfe and ncept (hole Day* fhould be 

kind by Water, for be would not foflet to attach fhort*ned there ItiouJd no Fie lh be f*ved, but fot 

Sin and Wjrkednefc to go unptwilhed j inr Spirit the Etefii Sake thofe Day* ftull be Jbortened* So 

faitfl God foil not alwajs (bine and atnde with God #f hit infinite Merry remain with m now iftd 

fdtta , ho-^erer^ f^ did not immediately cot tbem for evermore A mm. 

re minder— -you 
couldn't forget to 
post that let lor, 
bring home that box 
of chocolates, or 
remember that im- 
port ant engage- 
ment.— Mr. F- S. 
Maud ling, 15, God- 
stone Road, Si. Mar- 
garet's , Twicken- 


THIS weird- 
looking figure 
is far from being ihe 
human freak one 
would suppose, as 
the following deiaits 
describing how it 
was made will show. 
The head was an old 
German jug bought 
at a sale, and there 
is a small cap placed 
on the mouth of the 
jug. The body was 
a camera ^ and en- 
closed in a long 
cloak, with a clothes- 
hanger placed in- 
side for the shoul- 
ders* It had a school- 


AT a time when we have been hearing so much about 
Halle) -\ comet the old leaflet here reproduced, 
showing how the coming of the comet was regarded 
in the eighteenth century, will be read with unusual 
hits rest .—Messrs. Charles Higharai and Son, 27A, 
Farringdon Street, London, E.G. 


PERHAPS at a glance it will be wondered why 
the piece of stamp-edging is stuck on the watch- 
glass, with the words u Order ' Strand.' " It is simply 
to illustrate an almost infallible memory jogger* The 
average man, I suppose, looks at his watch many 
times during the day* Also, the average man is apt 
to forget things now and again (I have even heard 
of a man forgetting to post a letter given him by 

his wife *' to drop 
in " as he passed !}* 
If the said average 
man will therefore 
try this little dodge 
as a "reminder" 
it will, no doubt, 
often save an in- 
convenience. Stick 
a small piece of 
stamp - edging on 
watch-glass, with 
just the briefest 
note of subject to 
be remembered 
written thereon. 
Then each time 
the watch is 
consulted — well, 
there you have the 

boy's collar and an umbrella was fastened to one of 
the sleeves. The feel were a pair of coon shoes which 
had been use I for cli ^ n d o;ng, etc. It caused great 
amusement. AndM^ of giving the lady 

next door"a L sfart{ -fo7 1 Wh¥n J sU opened her door in 
response to a ring at the bell this alone confronted 
her. — Mr. Charles E. Melville, IO, Berlin Terrace, 
Poll ok shields, Glasgow* J_ 



is about sixty years old only 


SEEING in a 
recent num- 
ber of The 
Strand Maga- 
zine a picture of 
two old dolls, I 
am sending you a 
photograph of otoC 
in my possession, 
1 tjade entirely of 
-ilpxi, which is 
proved lo be tut* 
Vundred and fifty - 
*ve years old and 
thought to be the 
oldest known doll 
in England . It 
has been shown 
at several exhibi- 
tions. The doll's 
dress, I should add, 
Mrs. C. A. Watson, 

centre as an axle, 1 made a neat 
finish to the body of the roller by 
closing each end with a wooden 
plate. Foe a few pence a black- 
smith made the iron supports for 
the handle, the T-shaped parts 
being of wood* I might add that 
this roller cost but a few shillings 
and has been in active use for 
several years. Care should be 
taken to make the 
inside solid and 
evenly balanced,— 
Mr. B. E. Pledger, 
4 S, Wclldon 
Crescent, Harrow* 



Mortimer House, Springfield Roadj Windsor. 


MR. J. CLIFFE believes he is 
the only man in England who 
has a medal for early rising. 
This honour was awarded him 
some sixty years ago, when he 
was an apprentice in Pontefract. 
It was his duty in those distant 
days to open his master's shop 
every morning at seven o'clock. 
In all the years of his servitude 
he was never a minute late in 
fulfilling this duty. Three retired 
merchants in Pontefract were so 
struck by his punctuality that 
they subscrihed to present him 
with a medal — Mr. N.J. Byrne, 
ii, St. John's Grove, Leeds, 


Tl I E drawing of a warship 
made entirely on a type- 
writer, which was published 
in a recent number of The 
Strand, induced me to see 
what I could do in the same 
way, and the drawing of a 
Suffragette which I am send- 
ing you is the 
result. — Miss 
L G. Maud- 


THE photograph below shows a 
garden roller made from an ordinary large-Sized 
drain pipe, I Look a section of pipe and having filled it 
with cement and stones, round an iron bar fixed in the 

Road, Bedford Park, W\ 


THE four remarkable stone* 
shown in the following 
photograph are to be seeo 
near Bath. The upright stones 
are in the three counties of 
Somerset, Gloucestershire, and 
Wiltshire respectively, and my 
friend, who is reclining on the fourth 
stone, is thus in three shires at the 
same time. — Mr. Gilbert J. Bryant, 
Poplar House, Batheaston* Bath, 


Mr, Maskelyne has accepted Sir Hiram Maxims challenge which appeared 
laat month, and will re ply to it in our nex t number* 



| ONT be afraid of the heat/' 
I said the other day to a 
young Englishman on his 
way to Manitoba. 
He looked surprised, 
" I thought it was a cold 
country," he said 
be deceived by the ther- 
mometer," I went on. " Hanging out in 
the open air all winter, with nothing on but 
a thin glass jacket, the mercury naturally 
feels cold. But men's blood is not made of 
mercury; they have plenty of money over 
there to clothe themselves properly;- and 

"And don't 

they don't hang about doing nothing } like 
thermometers. 1 ' 

The fact of the matter is, people find it 
easier to keep warm in Manitoba than they do 
in England. Here the heating arrangements 
of our houses are so inadequate that in winter 
we feel cold even indoors ; and in summer 
— well, that part of the year which we flatter 
with the name of summer is often most 
uncomfortably chilly. In Manitoba the 
houses and offices and shops, and even the 
trains and tram-cars, are kept thoroughly 
warm all winter, no matter how low the 
mercury may choose to fall in the street; 






and when you go out, properly clad, you 
may laugh at thermometers. The summer 
days are warm and often 
hot, with this advantage- 
that they are followed by 
deliciously cool evenings 
and nights. And the sun- 
shine! In our cloudy islands 
we rarely enjoy the brilliance 
of the sun as it commonly 
shines, summer and winter, 
in Manitoba. 

Just a century will have 
gone by next year since 
the first settlers arrived in 
that country* Till then the 
only white inhabitants were 
the men of the Hudson Bay 
Company, bartering with 
the Indians for beaver-skins 
and other furs; and that 
remained practically the 
only trade of the country 

till our own times. When 
at last, in 1869, the great 
West became part of the 
newly formed Dominion of 
Canada, there was still only 
a handful of farmers in the 
country. At Fort Garry, 
the headquarters of the 
Hudson Bay Company, 
which was appointed to be 
the capital of the Province 
of Manitoba, there was a 
population of only two hun- 
dred, and not enough food 
was produced in the country 
for even those few to eat. 

To-day the old gate of 
Fort Garry stands, a trea- 
sured relic of the romantic 
past, in the great modern 
city of Winnipeg, with its 
population of 150,000 — 
larger than any other city 
in the Dominion except 
Montreal and Toronto, 
Winnipeg is now a great 
railway centre, with an 
enormous trade, many 
banks, sky-scraping office 
buildings, big u department 
stores" selling everything 
you can buy in London, a 
complete system of electric 
tramways and lighting and 
telephones, handsome and 
well- filled churches, hotels, 

schools, colleges, theatres, beautiful parks, 

and influential daily papers. 




It is, in fact, a metropolis, fully equipped 
with every device of modern civilization, 
growing fast, exulting in its strength, and 
looking forward to a magnificent future. 
No less than ^3,000,000 is being spent this 
year in Winnipeg on new buildings alone* 
The Bank of Montreal, one of the strongest 
financial institutions in the Empire, is putting 
up a house for its Winnipeg branch even 
more imposing than its headquarters in the 
commercial capital of the Dominion. That 
is a very significant fact, A few years ago 
the West had to borrow all its capital from the 
East To-day it has large capital accumu- 
lations of its own, partly owing to its vast 
production of foodstuffs, which the outer 
world is always eager to buy, and partly 
owing to the arrival of well-to do immigrants 
by the hundred thousand. 

with trees, with great lakes where fishermen 
are busy and holiday-makers are playing on 
the beach. But, after all, the glory of the 
Province is its open prairie. The south- 
western region might be described as an 
apparently endless wheat field, dotted with 
comfortable homes. It is indeed a farmers 1 
paradise. The soil is rich and easily tilled ; 
the rainfall is neither too much nor too little. 
The land is covered with a network of rail- 
ways ; and at a station within easy reach 
of the farm is an " elevator," to which the 
grower carts his wheat direct from the thresh 
ing in the fields, and where he can either sell 
it at the market price of the day or store 
it till the price suits him. The agricultural 
community exercises powerful influence over 
the Provincial Legislature, and the Govern- 
ment has lately been empowered to take over 


The air is fresh and clear and brisk and 
breezy even in the city.; but come out into 
the country-side, and say whether you have 
ever breathed anything more tonic and 
invigorating, The man who has lived among 
woods and mountains may shrink at first 
from life in that limitless expanse of plain 
and sky ; but he gets used to it astonishingly 
soon, and even the Highlander, after a few 
years in Manitoba, begins to realize some- 
thing of the born plainsman's exultation in 
the boundless airy freedom of the sunny 

Do not imagine that Manitoba is all as flat 
and bare as a billiard-table. In the south- 
east you can wander at your will through the 
forest primeval And if you go north from 
Winnipeg you find yourself before long in a 
land of gently-swelling hills, well sprinkled 

any of the elevators which it considers should 
be owned by the people. The telephone 
system has for several years been public 

A very interesting change is now corning 
oyer the chief Manitoban industry. Wheat 
is very profitable ; so profitable that the 
farmers have grown rich by it, as the style 
and comfort of their homes will show at 
a glance, But in the last few years enormous 
areas have been opened up for wheat-raising 
in the newer Provinces, Saskatchewan and 
Alberta, where there was almost unlimited free 
land still available for settlement by home- 
steaders, Manitoban farmers, moreover, have 
the advantage of a heavier rainfall and a 
large ncu agricultural population to be fed, 
especially in Winnipeg. They have, there- 
fore, gone in more and more for mked 



farming. They keep hundreds of thousands 
of cattle, besides horses and pigs ; they 
produce great quantities of butter and 
cheese, which fetch high prices ; and they 
add largely to their incomes by selling 
vegetables, poultry, and eggs. Last year 
their crops included 52,706,000 bushels of 
wheat, 55,267,000 bushels of oats, 20,866,000 
bushels of barley, 4,118,400 bushels of 
potatoes, r, 1 76,000 bushels of turnips and 
other roots, and 171,200 tons of hay and 
clover— the money value of all the field crops 
being nearly ^15,000,000, or ^,500,000 
more than in the previous year. 

Thanks to the increased market value of 
all that the Manitoban farmers produce, the 
value of their land continues to rise, in spite 
of the vast areas of new land opened up for 
settlement farther west. The average value 

time, and he does it ungrudgingly, buoyed up 
by the knowledge that he is his own master and 
landlord, and that the end of his honourable 
and independent labour will be an equally 
honourable and independent old age of rest 
and comfort. But he does not have to put 
off all recreation and enjoyment till old age 
comes. Every winter is necessarily a time 
of holiday for the land } and the people who 
live on the land share in its holiday. The 
cattle and horses in their stables have to be 
cared for, but plenty of time is left for social 
intercourse. Outcomes the sleigh, and away 
go the farmer and his family over the crisp 
snow road to visit their town or country 

Yes, there is a good deal going on of a very 
lively and enjoyable sort out there among the 
prairie folk at the very time when they are 


per acre of the occupied farms in this Pro- 
vince rose from $27,30 (or about ^5 13s.) in 
1908 to $28.94 (or ^6) in 1909, When the 
farmer thinks himself old enough to retire, 
he can well afford to do it on the income 
from his accumulated profits and the price 
of his farm. A few may come back here 
with the idea of spending the rest of their 
days in the Old Country; but as a rule 
they cannot stand our climate, or feel irked 
and fettered by the conditions under which 
we live, and soon return to the freer life of 
the Prairie Province, Most of them find a con- 
genial abode in the towns and villages which 
have sprung up all over the map of Manitoba. 
Even the working years of the Manitoban 
farmer are not by any means spent in constant 
toil He certainly works hard in summer- 

supposed by some over-sympathetic friends 
at home to be " in the grip r winter/' And 
even in the summer, gloriob Jl as it is of 
cultivating and mowing and reaping, and all 
the other ways in which man u is to co- 
operate with bountiful Nature, che farming 
folk find time now and then for relaxation at 
a picnic. 

I have seen Nature in all her moods and 
been among the people at every season, at 
work and play ; and the most vivid picture 
Manitoba has left on my mind is one of 
golden corn vavmg under a golden sun in a 
blue sky ; of a good land and a good people—^ 
strong and chetrfjul tnen. and women, and 
children PpoAiygll'^-'Helalthy in body and 
mind to take high rank among the hardy 
northern races that lead the world. 



HE growing of wool and 
mutton and the raising of 
cattle and sheep are the 
most important sources of 
Australia's wealth. The 
pastoral industry gives the 
Australian people an annual 
return of some ^50,000,000 sterling, and 
it is steadily making progress, Australia is 
the first land to be the possessor of 
1 00, 000 , 000 sheep. 

This wonderful flock is divided amongst a 
legion of owners, large and small There are 
individuals and companies in Australia which 
number their Spanish merinos by hundreds 
of thousands, whilst almost every farmer 
contributes in some degree to the annual 
fleece. Few rural industries are so profitable, 
and scarcely any more attractive to the young 
Englishman, Very little labour is required. 
A manager and a few hands, assisted by a 
team of dogs and some good horseflesh, are 

sufficient to control stations comprising a 
quarter or half a million acres* 

It is an old axiom that the wool grows 
while the squatter sleeps. And in the 
Commonwealth it grows to some purpose. 
In the past hundred years the average weight 
of the Australian fleece has increased from 
-3>41b. to nearly 81b., and, as the quality of 
the wool shows a remarkable improvement, 
the annual value of this result of scientific 
breeding amounts to many millions sterling. 

To-day Australia's great fleece is worth 
between ^25,000,000 and ^30,000,000 a 
year, whilst in addition there is a big return 
for mutton. In the proceeds from cattle 
and horses, we find that the total value of 
the grazing industry is above ^£50,000,000 
a year. A big part is still played in this 
money-spinning pursuit by the British born. 
Many of the station managers are English- 
men, who began with no knowledge of the 
Australian countryside, and who by their 



** . 4h^ -'«#" *»- _ * C _ . *fr, mr f -■ J> <• Mt 


Original from 




pluck and their extraordinary adaptability have 
become experts in the growing and marketing 
of the best quality wool in the world. 

Many more of these young men from the 
Mother Country have become graziers them- 
selves. Possessed of a little capital, they 
have, after acquiring some experience, taken 
up land either on long leases from the 
Crown or under freehold, and are now 
engaged in the growing of wool for the mills 
of all countries, the breeding of cattle whose 

animals. You would find a comfortable 
homestead occupied by the owner or manager, 
and perhaps a little out-station or two com- 
prising three or four simple rooms and 
tenanted by the boundary- riders and their 

Close to the homestead would be a shearing 
shed, where once a year the sheep would be 
mustered and stripped of their fleece by 
flying gangs of shearers working with machine- 
driven clippers. A light stable and one or 

a squatter's homestead. 

frozen quarters come to Smithfield, and the 
raising of horses which are the pride of the 
Army oF India and of the horsemen of South 
Africa and Japan. 

A good feature of stock-raising in Australia 
is that the land is peculiarly free from animal 
diseases. You might travel for hundreds of 
miles over country occupied by graziers and 
never discover a veterinary surgeon* Animals 
are so seldom ill that the specialist in their 
ailments cannot get a living. 

Stock-raising in the South appeals to many 
people because it requires a very small plant. 
If you take a typical Australian station of, 
say, 20,000 acres, you would find it divided 
by wire fences into six or seven paddocks of 
various sizes* each containing one or more 
water-tanks dug out of the earth. The timber 
would have been killed off many years ago, 
ind the stock would be thriving upon the 

h mat of natural grasses, which improve 

>m year to year with the presence of the 

two other cheap outbuildings would complete 
the whole outfit. If a beginner takes up 
new land on easy terms from the Crown, the 
usual work consists of killing the timber by 
removing a ring of bark from the trees close 
to the ground, in tank- sinking, fencing, and 
in household provision— all cheap and easy 
work. The climate is so favourable that the 
housing of stock is seldom necessary even 
in winter. 

Large numbers of small graziers get a good 
living on blocks of from 5,000 to 10,000 
acres, controlled from the one little home- 
stead by the owner and a man or two- Apart 
from the general superintendence, the work of 
the year is in the muster to mark and brand 
the Iambs, another muster at shearing, and 
another for the sale of surplus animals. Life 
is spent very largely m the saddle. Every 
Austral^ |^jt|^lkl^i^Sl^r" a lover of good 
horses j and keeps one or two of the best for 
his own use. 


UEENSLAND'S dairy in- 
dustry may be considered 
to have commenced in 
the early 'nineties, when the 
travelling dairy, under the 
superintendence of Mr. John 
Mahon, Principal of Gatton 
College, toured throughout the possible 
dairying districts of Queensland, instructing 
farmers in the art and mystery of up- to- 
date treatment of the cow. At that time 
farmers milked their cows but once each 
day, the calves doing the second milking. 
There were but two separators in the State, 
one being at Hampton, Crow's Nest Line, 
and one at the Coomera. The first testing 
for the butter content of cream took place 
at Teviot, in a 
small cottage, 
under the direc- 
t ion of Mr. 
Mahon- At this 
time Queensland 
was almost en- 
tirely devoted to 
pastoral and 
mining pursuits. 
What agriculture 
existed, apart 
from the cultiva- 
tion of sugarcane 
in the coastal dis- 
tricts, was merely 
raising maize, 
wheat, lucerne, 
potatoes, hay, and 
a few other crops. 

Dairying, as we understand it to-day, did not 
exist The cows were of the beefy strain, 
and the few pounds of butter, hand-made 
by the farmer's wife, brought 3d. to *jd- per lb. 
at the local storekeeper's. 

It was not until about ten or twelve years 
ago that the farmers began to seriously turn 
to scientific dairying. At first the milk was 
brought to the creameries to be separated, 
the farmer taking back the skim milk for his 
calves and pigs. Now every farm hns its 
own separator, and the cream goes direct to 
the factory. 

Modern dairying has practically revolu- 
tionized farming in South Queensland, 
Formerly the agriculturist depended on his 
crop of wheat and his crop of maize, and if 
these failed there was nothing left except the 
final I quantity of butter hand-made by his 


wife or the sale of a few steers or pigs* But 
with the expansion of dairying, scientific 
methods, and an over-sea market, the farmer 
not only gets his crop in ordinary seasons, 
but a regular monthly cheque for his cream. 
As a matter of fact he gets more now for a 
pound of cream than he formerly did for 
a pound of butter. In a good season he 
can feed back his barley and wheat for a 
couple of months, turning it into cream, and 
still get a crop of grain, Concomitant with 
the cheque for the cream is the cheque for 
the pigs fattened on skim milk. 

The butter industry is practically under 
Government supervision, from the milking 
shed to the cold - storage rooms on the 
steamer* First the dairy farm is inspected, 

to see that the 
cows are healthy, 
the yards clean, 
machines in good 
order, and, as far 
as possible, all 
the surroundings 

Cream inspec- 
tors see to the 
cleanliness of 
factories, main- 
tenance of the 
standard of 
cream, methodsof 
manufacture, and 
check butter-fat 
tests in the inte- 
rests of suppliers. 
When the butter has been made, and 
passed into cold chambers, it is weighed, 
tested, and graded. Every box of butter 
that leaves the State for markets beyond 
the seas is graded and stamped according to 
its quality, so that, so far as Queensland is 
concerned, the distant consumer is scrupu- 
lously protected. 

The Government also supervise the ship- 
ping of butter; and. as before stated, all 
butter is graded before shipment Acts of 
Legislature provide for the supervision of all 
matters connected with dairying, up to the 
point of export. 

Farmers .at .first A\d not take kindly to 
State suuervisity^ gradually dis- 

covered WraFrHe sy'itfcWjA'tb their advantage. 
They obtain far better prices in the Londo" 

British Columbia's Wonderful Advance. 

HE advantages of the position 
of British Columbia on the 
Pacific Ocean seem hardly 
to be fairly considered by the 
people of the Mother Country. 
They do not apparently yet 
realize that it is the Britain of 
the West, but if a map of North America is 
inspected it will be seen that Vancouver 
Island, aq important part of British Columbia, 
practically occupies the same position in 
relation to the continent of North America that 
England does to the continent of Europe, 
Vancouver Island and the mainland of the 
Province possess all the great natural re- 
sources of the Motherland, and much more* 

and thousands of miles of coasts between 
Victoria and Alaska — 800 miles to the north. 
This shows clearly that the vast trade of the 
Pacific is only in its infancy, and that it will 
be largely carried on from and through British 
Columbia, for the products of that Province 
are the actual daily necessities of all that 
densely-peopled country. 

Fortunately, British Columbia possesses 
the finest harbours in the North Pacific to 
accommodate and facilitate this growing 
trade ; it is already the terminus of one of 
the greatest railways in the world, and within 
four years' time at least two, and probably 
three, other transcontinental railways will 
terminate at this point. These would be 


Here are found the best coalfields of North 
America, as well as an abundance of iron 
and copper, the finest forests of timber, and 
a magnificent supply of fish. 

Forty years ago there was little trade on 
the North Pacific* A steamer once a month 
to Victoria and a few sailing vessels round 
Cape Horn did all the business of the 
country. There are now five lines of 
steamers running from British Columbia ports 
to China, Japan, Australia, and the Pacific 
Islands — to Mexico, Chili, the northern 
coast of British Columbia, and Alaska, in 
addition to many boats for the trade of the 
great inland sea, with its hundreds of islands 

the Grand Trunk Pacific, the Canadian 
Northern, and an American line from the 

People used to say that if British 
Columbia was not good for mining or 
timber it was good for nothing. Today 
it is a flourishing agricultural province, and 
its fruit is acknowledged to be the best in 
the world. It is about twelve years since the 
cultivation of fruit was commenced, and last 
year over 7,000 tons were exported* 

For |t|hc | nrl)icl^e|©n|* < Tgtems in British Columbia ' 
in the 'ItprU'^uVeTS^^Sdpplerncnt, we arc largely 
indebted to the courtesy of Canada, the popular 
illustrated London weekly. 


Since our July issue went to press 
we have had to lament the death of 
Sir George Newnes, to whom 
this Magazine owes its origin — the 
Magazine which, at its first appearance, 
at once took the foremost place among 
publications of its kind, and, what is 
perhaps even more remarkable, has 
maintained that place, in spite of every 
kind of imitation and rivalry, for nearly 
twenty years. This is not the place to 
dwell upon the qualities which made Sir 
George at the same time a great popular 
Editor and the most human and lovable 
of men, qualities to which the news- 
paper Press has already done full justice. 
But it would not be fitting to omit 
some tribute to his memory, however 
brief, in this the Magazine which he 
founded and of which he was so highly 
and so justly proud. 

/"* 1 Original from 




{See page 140.) 



The Terror of Blue John Gap. 

Illustrated by Harry Rouxitree. 

HE following narrative was 
found among the papers of 
Dr. James Hardcastle, who 
died of phthisis on Febru- 
ary 4th, 1908, at 36, Upper 
Coventry Flats , South Ken- 
sington. Those who knew 
him best* while refusing to express an opinion 
upon this particular statement, are unanimous 
in asserting that he was a man of a sober and 

S scientific turn of mind, absolutely devoid of 
imagination, and most unlikely to invent any 
abnormal series of events. The paper was 
contained in an envelope, which was docketed, 
"A Short Account of the Circumstances 
which Occurred near Miss AlJerion's Farm in 
North* West Derbyshire in the Spring of Last 
Year." The envelope was sealed, and on the 
other side was written in pencil : — 

Dear S eaton, — It may interest, and perhaps pain, 
you to know that the incredulity with which you met 
my story has prevented me from ever opening my 
mouth upon the subject again. I leave this record 
after my death, and perhaps strangers may be found 
to have more confidence bi me than my friend. 

Inquiry has failed to elicit who this Seaton 
may have been. I may add that the visit of 
the deceased to AllertoiVs Farm, and the 
general nature of the alarm there, apart from 
his particular explanation, have been abso- 
lutely established With this foreword I 
append his account exactly as he left it. It 
is in the form of a diary, some entries in 
which have been expanded, while a few have 
been erased, 

April //^.—Already I feel the benefit of 
this wonderful upland air. The farm of the 
Allertons lies fourteen hundred and twenty 
feet above sea -level, so it may well be a 
bracing climate. Beyond the usual morning 
cough I have very little discomfort, and, what 
with the fresh milk and the homegrown 
mutton, I have every chance of putting on 
weight. I think Saunderson will be pleased* 

quaint ana kind, two dear little hard-working 
old maids, who are ready to lavish all \k\< 
heart which might have gone out to husban* 



and to children upon an invalid stranger. 
Truly, the old maid is a most useful person, 
one of the reserve forces of the community. 
They talk of the superfluous woman, but 
what would the poor superfluous man do 
without her kindly presence ? By the way, in 
their simplicity they very quickly let out the 
reason why Saunderson recommended their 
farm. The Professor rose from the ranks 
himself, and I believe that in his youth he 
was not above scaring crows in these very 

It is a most lonely spot, and the walks are 
picturesque in the extreme. The farm con- 
sists of grazing land lying at the bottom of an 
irregular valley. On each side are the 
fantastic limestone hills, formed of rock so 
soft that you can break it away with your 
hands. All this country is hollow. Could 
you strike it with some gigantic hammer it 
would boom like a drum, or possibly cave in 
altogether and expose some huge subterranean 
sea. A great sea there must surely be, for 
on all sides the streams run into the moun- 
tain itself, never to reappear. There are gaps 
everywhere amid the rocks, and when you 
pass through them you find yourself in great 
caverns, which wind down into the bowels of 
the earth. I have a small bicycle lamp, and 
it is a perpetual joy to me to carry it into 
these weird solitudes, and to see the won- 
derful silver and black effects when I throw 
its light upon the stalactites which drape the 
lofty roofs. Shut off the lamp, and you are 
in the blackest darkness. Turn it on, and it 
is a scene from the Arabian Nights. 

But there is one of these strange openings 
in the earth which has a special interest, for 
it is the handiwork, not of Nature, but of 
Man. I had never heard of Blue John when 
I came to these parts. It is the name given 
to a peculiar mineral of a beautiful purplish 
shade, which is only found at one or two 
places in the world. It is so rare that an 
ordinary vase of Blue John would be valued 
at a great price. The Romans, with that 
extraordinary instinct of theirs, discovered 
that it was to be found in this valley, and 
sank a horizontal shaft deep into the moun- 
tain side. The opening of their mine has 
been called Blue John Gap, a clean cut arch 
in the rock, the mouth all overgrown with 
bushes. It is a goodly " passage which the 
Roman miners have cut, and it intersects 
some of the great water-worn caves, so that if 
you enter Blue John Gap you would do well 
to mark your steps and to have a good store 
of candles, or you may never make your way 
back to the daylight again. I have not yet 

gone deeply into it, but this very day I stood 
at the mouth of the arched tunnel, and peer- 
ing down into the black recesses beyond I 
vowed that when my health returned 1 would 
devote some holiday to exploring those 
mysterious depths and finding out for myself 
how far the Roman had penetrated into the 
Derbyshire hills. 

Strange how superstitious these country- 
men are ! I should have thought better of 
young Armitage, for he is a man of some 
education and character, and a very fine 
fellow for his station in life. I was standing 
at the Blue John Gap when he came across 
the field to me. 

"Well, doctor," said he, "you're not afraid, 

" Afraid ! " 1 answered. " Afraid of what ? " 

"Of It," said he, with a jerk of his thumb 
towards the black vault ; " of the Terror that 
lives in the Blue John Cave." 

How absurdly easy it is for a legend to 
arise in a lonely countryside ! I examined 
him as to the reasons for his weird belief. 
It seems that from time to time sheep have 
been missing from the fields, carried bodily 
away, according to Armitage. That they 
could have wandered away of their own 
accord and disappeared among the moun- 
tains was an explanation to which he would 
not listen. On one occasion a pool of blood 
had been found, and some tufts of wool. 
That also, I pointed out, could be explained 
in a perfectly natural way. Further, the 
nights upon which sheep disappeared were 
invariably very dark, cloudy nights, with no 
moon. This I met with the obvious retort 
that those were the nights which a common- 
place sheep-stealer would naturally choose 
for his work. On one occasion a gap had 
been made in a wall, and some of the 
stones scattered for a considerable distance. 
Human agency again, in my opinion. 
Finally, Armitage clinched all his arguments 
by telling me that he had actually heard the 
Creature — indeed, that anyone could hear it 
who remained long enough at the Gap. It 
was a distant roaring of an immense volume. 
I could not but smile at this, knowing, as I 
do, the strange reverberations which come 
out of an underground water system running 
amid the chasms of a limestone formation. 
My incredulity annoyed Armitage, so that he 
turned and left me with some abruptness. 

And now comes the queer point about the 
whole business. Y was still standing near 
the mOTm , 'o l r 'm^'eavle,' 'turning over in my 
mind the various statements of Armitage 
and reflecting how readily they could be 



explained away, when suddenly, fVom the 
depth of the tunnel beside me, there issued 
a most extraordinary sound* How shall I 
describe it? First of all, it seemed to be 
a great distance away, far down in the bowels 
of the earth. Secondly, in spite of this sug- 
gestion of distance, it was very loud. Lastly, 
it was not a boom, nor a crash, such as one 
would associate with falling water or tumbling 

that sound was certainly very strange. It 
still rings in my ears as I write, 

April 2Qih* — In the last three days I have 
made several expeditions to the Blue John 
Gap, and have even penetrated some short 
distance, but my bicycle lantern is so small 
and weak that I dare not trust myself very 
far, I shall do thi< thing more systematically, 
I have heard no sound at all, and could 





"suddenly pkom the depths op the tunnel beside me there issued a most 


rock ; but it was a high whine, tremulous and 
vibrating, almost like the whinnying of a 
horse. It was certainly a most remarkable 
experienccj and one which for a moment, I 
must adxnit, gave a new significance to 
Armitage's words. I waited by the Blue 
John Gap for half an hour or more, but there 
was no return of the sound, so at last I 
wandered back to the farm-house, rather 
mystified by what had occurred. Decidedly, 
I shall explore that cavern when my strength 
is restored. Of course, Armitage's explana- 
tion is too absurd for discussion 3 and yet 

almost believe that I had been the victim of 
some hallucination, suggested, perhaps^ by 
Armitage's conversation* Of course, the 
whole idea is absurd, and yet I must confess 
that those bushes at the entrance of the cave 
do present an appearance as if some heavy 
creature had forced its way through them. 
I begin to be keenly interested I have said 
nothing to the Miss Allertons, for they are 
quite superstitious enough already, but I have 
bought some candles s and mean to Investi- 
gate for myself, 

I observed this morning that among t 



numerous tufts of sheep's wool which lay 
among the bushes near the cavern there was 
one which was smeared with blood. Of 
course, my reason tells me that if sheep 
wander into such rocky places they are likely 
to injure themselves, and yet somehow that 
splash of crimson gave me a sudden shock, 
and for a moment I found myself shrinking 
back in horror from the old Roman arch. 
A fetid breath seemed to ooze from the black 
depths into which I peered. Could it indeed 
be possible that some nameless thing, some 
dreadful presence, was lurking down yonder ? 
I should have been incapable of such feelings 
in the days of my strength, but one grows 
more nervous and fanciful when one's health 
is shaken. 

For the moment I weakened in my 
resolution, and was ready to leave the 
secret of the old mine, if one exists, for ever 
unsolved. But to-night my interest has 
returned and my nerves grown more steady. 
To-morrow I trust that I shall have gone 
more deeply into this matter. 

April 22nd. — Let me try and set down 
as accurately as I can my extraordinary 
experience of yesterday. I started in the 
afternoon, and made my way to the Blue 
John Gap. I confess that my misgivings 
returned as I gazed into its depths, and I 
wished that I had brought a companion to 
share my exploration. Finally, with a return 
of resolution, I lit my candle, pushed my 
way through the briers, and descended into 
the rocky shaft 

It went down at an acute angle for some 
fifty feet, the floor being covered with broken 
stone. Thence there extended a long, straight 
passage cut in the solid rock. I am no 
geologist, but the lining of this corridor was 
certainly of some harder material than lime- 
stone, for there were points where I could 
actually see the tool-marks which the old 
miners had left in their excavation, as fresh 
as if they had been done yesterday. Down 
this strange, old-world corridor I stumbled, 
my feeble flame throwing a dim circle of light 
around me, which made the shadows beyond 
the more threatening and obscure. Finally, 
I came to a spot where the Roman tunnel 
opened into, a water- worn cavern — a huge 
hall, hung with long white icicles of lime 
deposit. From this central chamber I could 
dimly perceive that a number of passages 
worn by the subterranean streams wound 
away into the depths of the earth. I was 
landing there wondering whether I had better 

turn, or whether I dare venture farther into 

is dangerous labyrinth, when my eyes fell 

upon something at my feet which strongly 
arrested my attention. 

The greater part of the floor of the cavern 
was covered with boulders of rock or with* 
hard incrustations of lime; but at this par- 
ticular point there had been a drip from the 
distant roof, which had left a patch of soft 
mud. In the very centre of this. there was 
a huge mark — an ill-defined blotch, deep, 
broad, and irregular, as if a great boulder 
had fallen upon it No loose stone lay near, 
however, nor was there anything to account 
for the impression. It was far too large to 
be caused by any possible animal, and, 
besides, there was only the one, and the 
patch of mud was of such a size that no 
reasonable stride could have covered it As 
I rose from the examination of that singular 
mark and then looked round into the black 
shadows which hemmed me in, I must 
confess that I felt for a moment a most 
unpleasant sinking of my heart, and that, do 
what I would, the candle trembled in my 
outstretched hand. 

I soon recovered my nerve, however, when 
I reflected how absurd it was to associate so 
huge and shapeless a mark with the track of 
any known animal. Even an elephant could 
not have produced it I determined, there- 
fore, that I would not be scared by vague 
and senseless fears from carrying out my 
exploration. Before proceeding I took good 
note of a curious rock formation in the wall 
by which I could recognize the entrance of 
the Roman tunnel. The precaution was 
very necessary, for the great cave, so far as 
I could see it, was intersected by passages. 
Having made sure of my position, and 
reassured myself by examining my spare 
candles and my matches, I advanced slowly 
over the rocky and uneven surface of the 

And now I come to the point where I met 
with such sudden and desperate disaster. A 
stream, some twenty feet broad, ran across 
my path, and I walked for some little 
distance along the bank to find a spot where I 
could cross dryshod. Finally, I came to a 
place where a single flat boulder lay near the 
centre, which I could reach in a stride. As 
it chanced, however, the rock had been cut 
away and made top-heavy by the rush of the 
stream, so that it tilted over as I landed on 
it, and shot me into the ice-cold water. My 
candle went out, and I found myself flounder- 
ing about in an utter and absolute darkness. 

I staggered to my feet again, more amused 
than alarmed by my adventure. The candle 
had fallen from my hand, and w r as lost in the 



stream ; but I had two others in my pocket, 
so that it was of no importance. I got one 
of them ready, and drew out my box of 
matches to light it. Only then did I realize 
my position. The box had been soaked in my 
fall into the river. It was impossible to 
strike the matches. 

A cold hand seemed to close round my 
heart as I realized my position. The dark- 
ness was opaque and horrible. It was so 
utter that one put one's hand up to one's 
face as if to press off something solid. I 
stood still, and by an effort I steadied myself. 
I tried to reconstruct in my mind a map of 
the floor of the cavern as I had last seen it. 
Alas ! the bearings which had impressed 
themselves upon my mind were high on the 
wall, and not to be found by touch. Still, I 
remembered in a general way how the sides 
were situated, and I hoped that by groping 
my way along them I would at last come to 
the opening of the Roman tunnel. Moving 
very slowly, and continually striking against 
the rocks, I set out on this desperate quest. 

But I very soon realized how impossible it 
was. In that black, velvety darkness one lost 
all one's bearings in an instant. Before I had 
made a dozen paces I was utterly bewildered 
as to my whereabouts. The rippling of the 
stream, which was the one sound audible, 
showed me where it lay, but the moment that 
I left its bank I was utterly lost. The idea 
of finding my way back in absolute darkness 
through that limestone labyrinth was clearly 
an impossible one. 

I sat down upon a boulder and reflected 
upon my unfortunate plight. I had not told 
anyone that I proposed to come to the Blue 
John mine, and it was unlikely that a search 
party would come after me. Therefore, I 
must trust to my own resources to get clear 
of the danger. There was only one hope, 
and that was that the matches might dry. 
When I fell into the river only half of me had 
got thoroughly wet. My left shoulder had 
remained above the water. I took the box 
of matches, therefore, and put it into my 
left armpit. The moist air of the cavern 
might possibly be counteracted by the heat 
o( my body, but even so I knew that I could 
not hope to get a light for many hours. 
Meanwhile there was nothing for it but to 

By good luck I had slipped several biscuits 
into my pocket before I left the farm-house. 
These I now devoured, and washed them 
down with a draught from that wretched 
stream which had been the cause of all 
my misfortunes. Then I felt about for a 

comfortable seat among the rocks, and, having 
discovered a place where I could get a 
support for my back, I stretched out my legs 
and settled myself down to wait. I was 
wretchedly damp and cold, but I tried to 
cheer myself with the reflection that modern 
science prescribed open windows and walks 
in all weather for my disease. Gradually, 
lulled by the monotonous gurgle of the 
stream and by the absolute darkness, I sank 
into an uneasy slumber. 

How long- this lasted I cannot say. It 
may have been for one hour, it may have 
been for several. Suddenly I sat up on my 
rock couch, with every nerve thrilling and 
every sense acutely on the alert. Beyond all 
doubt I had heard a sound — spme sound 
very distinct from the gurgling of the waters. 
It had passed, but the reverberation of it still 
lingered in my ear. Was it a search party ? 
They would most certainly have shouted, 
and vague as this sound was which had 
wakened me, it was very distinct from the 
human voice. I sat palpitating and hardly 
daring to breathe. There it was again ! And 
again ! Now it had become continuous. 
It was a tread — yes, surely it was the 
tread of some living creature. But what a 
tread it was ! It gave one the impression of 
enormous weight carried upon sponge-like 
feet, which gave forth a muffled but ear-filling 
sound. The darkness was as complete as 
ever, but the tread was regular and decisive. 
And it was coming beyond all question in 
my direction. 

My skin grew cold, and my hair stood 
on end as I listened to that steady and 
ponderous footfall. There was some creature 
there, and surely, by the speed of its advance, 
it was one who could see in the dark. I 
crouched low on my rock and tried to blend 
myself into it. The steps grew nearer still, 
then stopped, and presently I was aware of 
a loud lapping and gurgling. The creature 
was drinking at the stream. Then again 
there was silence, broken by a succession of 
long sniffs and snorts, of tremendous volume 
and energy. Had it caught the scent of me? 
My own nostrils were filled by a low fetid 
odour, mephitic and abominable. Then I 
heard the steps again. They were on my 
side of the stream now. The stones rattled 
within a few yards of where I lay. Hardly 
daring to breathe, I crouched upon my rock. 
Then the steps drew away. I heard the 
splash as^ it \ .returned across the river, and 
the sound died away into the distance in the 
direction from which it had come. 

For a long time I lay upon the rock, 



much horrified to move. I thought of the 
sound which I had heard coming from the 
depths of the cave, of Armitage's fears, of 
the strange impression in the mud, and now 
came this final and absolute proof that there 
was indeed some inconceivable monster, 
something utterly un-English and dreadful, 
which lurked in the hollow of the mountain. 
Of its nature or form I could frame no con- 
ception, save that it was both light-footed 
and gigantic. The combat between my 
reason, which told me that such things could 
not be, and my senses, which told me that 
they were, raged within me as I lay. Finally, 
I was almost ready to persuade myself that 
this experience had been part of some evil 
dream, and that my abnormal condition 
might have conjured up an hallucination. 
But there remained one final experience 
which removed the last possibility of doubt 
from my mind. 

I had taken my matches from my armpit 
and felt them. They seemed perfectly hard 
and dry. Stooping down into a crevice of 
the rocks, I tried one of them. To my delight 
it took fire at once. I lit the candle, and, 
with a terrified backward glance into the 
obscure depths of the cavern, I hurried in the 
direction of the Roman passage. As I did 
so I passed the patch of mud on which I 
had seen the huge imprint. Now I stood 
astonished before it, for there were three 
similar imprints upon its surface, enormous 
in size, irregular in outline, of a depth which 
indicated the ponderous weight which had 
left them. Then a great terror surged over 
me. Stooping and shading my candle with 
my hand, I ran in a frenzy of fear to the rocky 
archway, hastened down it, and never stopped 
until, with weary feet and panting lungs, I 
rushed up the final slope of stones, broke 
through the tangle of briers, and flung myself 
exhausted upon the soft grass under the 
peaceful light of the stars. It was three in 
the morning when I reached the farm-house, 
and to-day I am all unstrung and quivering 
after my terrific adventure. As yet I have 
told no one. I must move warily in the 
matter. What would the poor lonely women, 
or the uneducated yokels here, think of it if 
I were to tell them my experience ? Let me 
go to someone who can understand and 

April 25th. — I was laid up in bed for two 
days after my incredible adventure in the 
cavern. I use the adjective with a very 
definite meaning, for I have had an experi- 
ence since which has shocked me almost as 
mch as the other. I have said that I was 

looking round for someone who could advise 
me. There is a Dr. Mark Johnson who 
practises some few miles away, to whom 
I had a note of recommendation from 
Professor Saunderson. To him I drove, 
when I was strong enough to get about, and 
I recounted to him my whole strange experi- 
ence. He listened intently, and then care- 
fully examined me, paying special attention 
to my reflexes and to the pupils of my eyes. 
When he had finished he refused to discuss 
my adventure, saying that it was entirely 
beyond him, but he gave me the card of a 
Mr. Picton at Castleton, with the advice 
that I should instantly go to him and tell 
him the story exactly as I had done it 
to himself. He was, according to my 
adviser, the very man who was pre-emi- 
nently suited to help me. I went on to the 
station, therefore, and made my way to the 
little town, which is some ten miles away. 
Mr. Picton appeared to be a man of import- 
ance, as his brass plate was displayed upon 
the door of a considerable building on the 
outskirts of the town. I was about to ring 
his bell, when some misgiving came into my 
mind, and, crossing to a neighbouring shop, 
I asked the man behind the counter if he 
could tell me anything of Mr. Picton. 
"Why," said he, "he is the best mad 
doctor in Derbyshire, and yonder is his 
asylum." You can imagine that it was not 
long before I had shaken the dust of Castle- 
ton from my feet and returned to the farm, 
cursing all unimaginative pedants who cannot 
conceive that there may be things in creation 
which have never yet chanced to come across 
their mole's vision. After all, now that I am 
cooler, I can afford to admit that I have 
been no more sympathetic to Armitage than 
Dr. Johnson has been to me. 

April 27th. — When I was a student I had 
the reputation of being a man of courage and 
enterprise. I remember that when there was 
a ghost-hunt at Coltbridge it was I who sat 
up in the haunted house. Is it advancing 
years (after all, I am only thirty-five), or is 
it this physical malady which has caused 
degeneration? Certainly my heart quails 
when I think of that horrible cavern in the 
hill, and the certainty that it has some mon- 
strous occupant. What shall I do ? There 
is not an hour in the day that I do not debate 
the question. If I say nothing, then the 
mystery remains unsolved. If I do say any- 
thing, then I have the alternative of mad alarm 
over the whole countryside, or of absolute 
incredulity which may end in consigning me 
to an -asylum. On the whole, I think that 



my best course is to wait, and to prepare 
for some expedition which shall be more 
deliberate and better thought-out than the 
last. As a first step I have been to Castle- 
tan and obtained a few essentials — a large 
acetylene lantern for one thing, and a good 
double-barrelled sporting rifle for another* 
The latter I have hired, but I have bought a 
dozen heavy game cartridges, which would 
bring down a rhinoceros. Now I am ready 
(or my troglodyte friend. Give me better 
health and a little spate of energy, and I 
shall try conclusions with him yet* But who 
and what is he ? Ah ! there is the question 
which stands between me and my sleep. 
How many theories do I form, only to 
discard each in turn ! It is all so utterly 

unthinkable. And yet the cry, the footmark, 
the tread in the cavern— no reasoning can 
get past these* I think of the old-world 
legends of dragons and of monster. Were 
they, perhaps, not such fairy-tales as we have 
thought ? Can it be that there is some fact 
which underlies them, and am I, of all 
mortals, the one who is chosen to expose it ? 
May jrd. — For several days I have been 
laid up by the vagaries of an English spring, 
and during those days there have been 
developments, the true and sinister meaning 
of which no one can appreciate save myself 
I may say that we have had cloudy and moon- 
less nights of late, which according to my in- 
formation were the seasons upon which sheep 
disappeared. Well, sheep have disappeared. 

: ) 





Two of Miss Allerton's, one of old Pear- 
son's of the Cat Walk, and one of Mrs. 
Moulton's. Four in all, during three nights. 
No trace is left of them at all, and the 
countryside is buzzing with rumours of gipsies 
and of sheep-stealers. 

But there is something more serious than 
that. Young Armitage has disappeared also. 
He left his moorland cottage early on 
Wednesday night, and has never been heard 
of since. He was an unattached man, so 
there is less sensation than would otherwise 
be the case. The popular explanation is that 
he owes money, and has found a situation in 
some other part of the country, whence he 
will presently write for his belongings. B*Jt 
I have grave misgivings. Is it not much 
more likely that the recent tragedy of the 
sheep has caused him to take some steps 
which may have ended in his own destruction ? 
He may, for example, have lain wait for the 
creature, and been carried off by it into the 
recesses of the mountains. What an incon- 
ceivable fate for a civilized Englishman of the 
twentieth century ! And yet I feel that it is 
possible and even probable. But in that case, 
how far am I answerable both for his death 
and for any other mishap which may occur ? 
Surely with the knowledge I already possess it 
must be my duty to see that something is done, 
or if necessary to do it myself. It must be the 
latter, for this morning I went down to the 
local police-station and told my story. The 
inspector entered it all in a large book and 
bowed me out with commendable gravity, 
but I heard a burst of laughter before I had 
got down his garden path. No doubt he 
was recounting my adventure to his family. 

June ioth.—\ am writing this, propped 
up in bed, six weeks after my last entry in 
this journal. I have gone through a terrible 
shock both to mind and body, arising from 
such an experience as has seldom befallen a 
human being before. But I have attained 
my end. The danger from the Terror which 
dwells in the Blue John Gap has passed, 
never to return. Thus much at least I, a 
broken invalid, have done for the common 
good. Let me now recount what occurred 
as clearly as I may. 

The night of Friday, May 3rd, was 
dark and cloudy — the very night for the 
monster to walk. About eleven o'clock I 
went from the farm-house with my lantern 
and my rifle, having first left a note upon 
the table of my bedroom in which I said 
that if I were missing search should be made 
for me in the direction of the Gap. I made 
ny way to the mouth of the Roman shaft, 

and, having perched myself among the rocks 
close to the opening, I shut off my lantern 
and waited patiently with my loaded rifle 
ready to my hand. 

It was a melancholy vigil. All down the 
winding valley I could see the scattered 
lights of the farm-houses, and the church 
clock of Chapel-le-Dale tolling the hours 
came faintly to my ears. These tokens of 
my fellow-men served only to make my own 
position seem the more lonely, and to call 
for a greater effort to overcome the terror 
which tempted me continually to get back to 
the farm, and abandon for ever this dangerous 
quest. And yet there lies deep in every man 
a rooted self-respect which makes it hard for 
him to turn back from that which he has 
once undertaken. This feeling of personal 
pride was my salvation now, and it was that 
alone which held me fast when every instinct 
of my nature was dragging me away. I am 
glad now that I had the strength. In spite of 
all that it has cost me, my manhood is at 
least above reproach. 

Twelve o'clock struck in the distant 
church, then one, then two. It was the 
darkest hour of the night. The clouds were 
drifting low, and there was not a star in the 
sky. An owl was hooting somewhere among 
the rocks, but no other sound, save the 
gentle sough of the wind, came to my ears. 
And then suddenly I heard it ! From far 
away down the tunnel came those muffled 
steps, so soft and yet so ponderous. I heard 
also the rattle of stones as they gave way 
under that giant tread. They drew nearer. 
They were close upon me. I heard the crash- 
ing of the bushes round the entrance, and then 
dimly through the darkness I was conscious 
of the loom of some enormous shape, some 
monstrous inchoate creature, passing swiftly 
and very silently out from the tunnel. I was 
paralyzed with fear and amazement Long 
as I had waited, now that it had actually 
come I was unprepared for the shock. I lay 
motionless and breathless, whilst the great 
dark mass whisked by me and was swallowed 
up in the night. 

But now I nerved myself for its return. 
No sound came from the sleeping country- 
side to tell of the horror which was loose. 
In no way could I judge how far off it was, 
what it was doing, or when it might be back. 
But not a second time should my nerve fail 
me, not a second time should it pass un- 
challenge<Ori^ifi v -vore it between my clenched 

teeth ^HfflAH/^UMiyPR^^d rifle across the 

And yet it nearly happened. There was 



no warning of approach now as the creature 
passed over the grass. Suddenly, like a dark, 
drifting shadow, the huge bulk loomed up 
once more before me, making for the entrance 

at the retreating form. In the blaze of the 
gun I caught a glimpse of a great shaggy 
mass, something with rough and bristling 
hair of a withered grey colour, fading away to 


of the cave. Again came that paralysis of 
volition, which held my crooked forefinger 
impotent upon the trigger. But witfi a 
desperate effort I shook it off Even as the 
brushwood rustled, and the monstrous beast 
blended with the shadow of the Gap, I fired 

white in its lower parts, the huge body sup- 
ported upon .short, thick, curving legs. I had 
just that glaTiflS'Shd then I heard the rattle 
of the se9rreg'fa4 'ito We&tbre tore down into 
its burrow. In an instant, with a triumphant 
revulsion of feeling, I had cast my fears to 



the wind, and uncovering my powerful lantern, 
with my rifle in my hand, I sprang down 
from my rock and rushed after the monster 
down the old Roman shaft 

My splendid lamp cast a brilliant flood of 
vivid light in front of me, very different from 
the yellow glimmer which had aided me down 
this same passage only twelve days before. 
As I ran I saw the great beast lurching along 
before me, hs huge bulk filling up the whole 
space from wall to wall Its hair looked like 
coarse faded oakum, and hung down in long, 
dense masses which swayed as it moved. It 
was like an enormous undipped sheep in its 
fleece, but in size it was far larger than the 
largest elephant, and its breadth seemed to 
.be nearly as great as its height. It fills me 
with amazement now to think that I should 
have dared to fallow such a horror into the 
bowels of the earth, but when one's blood is ' 

had turned upon his own traces, and in a 
moment we were face to face. 

That picture, seen in the brilliant white 
light of the lantern, is etched for ever upon 
my brain. He had reared up on his hind 
legs as a bear would do, and stood above 
me, enormous, menacing — such a creature 
as no nightmare had ever brought to my 
imagination, I have said that he reared like 
a bear, and there was something bear-like — 
if one could conceive a bear which was 
tenfold the bulk of any bear seen upon 
earth — in his whole pose and attitude, in 
his great crooked forelegs with their ivory- 
white claws, in his rugged skin, and in his 
red, gaping mouth, fringed with monstrous 
fangs. Only in one point did he differ from 
the bear, or from any other creature which 
walks the earth, and even at that supreme 
moment a shudder of horror passed over me 

up, and when one's quarry seems to be flying, 
the old primeval hunting spirit awakes and 
prudence is cast to the wind. Rifle in hand, 
I ran at the top of my speed upon the trail of 
the monster, 

I had seen that the creature was swift. 
Now I was to find out to my cost that it was 
also very cunning, I had imagined that it 
was in panic flight, and that I had only to 
pursue it. The idea that it might turn upon 
me never entered my excited brain. I have 
already explained that the passage down 
which I w T as racing opened into a great 
central cave. Into this I rushed, fearful lest 
" should lose all trace of the beast. BuL he 

as I observed that the eyes which glistened 
in the glow of my lantern were huge, pro- 
jecting bulbs, white and sightless* For a 
moment his great paws swung over my head* 
The next he fell forward upon me, I and my 
broken lantern crashed to the earth, and I 
remember no more- 

When I came to myself I was back in the 
farm-house of the Allertons, Two days had 
passed since my terrible adventure in the 
Blue John Gap. It seems that I had lain 
all rugltN[|i|A^ from concus- 

sion of the brain, with my left arm and two 
ribs badly fractured. In the morning my 



note had been found, a search-party of a 
dozen farmers assembled, and I had been 
tracked down and carried back to my bed- 
room, where I had lain in high delirium ever 
since. There was, it seems, no sign of the 
creature, and no bloodstain which would 
show that my bullet had found him as he 
passed. Save for my own plight and the 
marks upon the mud, there was nothing to 
prove that what I said was true. 

Six weeks have now elapsed, and I am 
able to sit out once more in the sunshine. 
Just opposite me is the steep hillside, grey 
with shaly rock, and yonder on its flank is 
the dark cleft which marks the opening of 
the Blue John Gap. But it is no longer a 
source of terror. Never again through that 
ill omened tunnel shall any strange shape flit 
out into the world of men. The educated 
and the scientific, the Dr. Johnsons and the 
like, may smile at my narrative, but the 
poorer folk of the countryside had never a 
doubt as to its truth. On the day after my 
recovering consciousness they assembled in 
their hundreds round the Blue John Gap. 
As the Castleton Courier said : — 

It was useless for our correspondent, or for any 
of the adventurous gentlemen who had come from 
Matlock, Buxton, and other parts, to offer to descend, 
to explore the cave to the end, and to finally test the 
extraordinary narrative of Dr. James Hardcastle. 
The country people had taken the matter into their 
own hands, and from an early hour of the morning they 
had worked hard in stopping up the entrance of the 
tunnel. There is a sharp slope where the shaft begins, 
and great boulders, rolled along by many willing hands, 
were thrust down it until the Gap was absolutely sealed. 
So ends the episode which has caused such excitement 
throughout the country. Local opinion is fiercely 
divided upon the subject. On the one hand are those 
who point to Dr. Hardcastle's impaired health, and 
10 the possibility of cerebral lesions of tubercular 
origin giving rise to strange hallucinations. Some 
*dte Jixty according to these gentlemen, caused the 
doctor to wander down the tunnel, and a fall among 
the rocks was sufficient to account for his injuries. 
On the other hand, a legend of a strange creature in 
the Gap has existed for some months back, and the 
farmers look upon Dr. Hardcastle's narrative and 
his persona] injuries as a final corroboration. So 
the matter stands, and so the matter will continue 
to stand, for no definite solution seems to us to be 
now possible. It transcends human wit to give any 
scientific explanation which could cover the alleged 

Perhaps before the Courier published these 
words they would have been wise to send 
their representative to me. I have thought 
the matter out, as no one else has had 
occasion to do, and it is possible that I 
might have removed some of the more 

obvious difficulties of the narrative and 
brought it one degree nearer to scientific 
acceptance. Let me then write down the 
only explanation which seems to me to 
elucidate what I know to my cost to have 
been a series of facts. My theory may 
seem to be wildly improbable, but at 
least no one can venture to say that it is 

My view is — and it was formed, as is shown 
by my diary, before my personal adventure — 
that in this part of England there is a vast 
subterranean lake or sea, which is fed by the 
great number of streams which pass down 
through the limestone. Where there is a 
large collection of water there must also be 
some evaporation, mists or rain, and a possi- 
bility of vegetation. This in turn suggests 
that there may be animal life, arising, as the 
vegetable life would also do, from those seeds 
and types which had been introduced at 
an early period of the world's history, 
when communication with the outer air was 
more easy. This place had then developed 
a fauna and flora of its own, including such 
monsters as the one which I had seen, which 
may well have been the old cave bear, enor- 
mously enlarged and modified by its new 
environment. For countless aeons the internal 
and the external creation had kept apart, 
growing steadily away from each other. Then 
there had come some rift in the depths of 
the mountain which had enabled one creature 
to wander up and, by means of the Roman 
tunnel, to reach the open air. Like all sub- 
terranean life, it had lost the power of sight, 
but this had no doubt been compensated 
for by Nature in other directions. Cer- 
tainly it had some means of finding its 
way about, and of hunting down the sheep 
upon the hillside. As to its choice of dark 
nights, it is part of my theory that light was 
painful to those great white eyeballs, and 
that it was only a pitch-black world which it 
could tolerate. Perhaps, indeed, it was the 
glare of my lantern which saved my life at 
that awful moment when we were face to 
face. So I read the riddle. I leave these 
facts behind me, and if you can explain them, 
do so ; or if you choose to doubt them, do 
so. Neither your belief nor your incredulity 
can alter them, nor affect one whose task is 
nearly over. . 

So ended the strange narrative of Dr. 
James Hardcastl 


J HE approaching centenary 
of the birth of Charles 
Dickens is certain to give 
rise to many projects by 
which the English-speaking 

J world may be eij^lj^altfrorr 


y Ifby its tribute| N ^|yaf|^if^ E R!;| 

to a great writer and u great man, 

"Vast as the rewards are/* wrote Sir 



Arthur Helps, " which a grateful nation 
heaps upon its successful statesmen, soldiers, 
and administrators, such rewards would sink 
into insignificance were the nation to pay a 
tithe of the debt it owes to Charles Dickens 
for the entertainment, the solace, the uplifting 
humanity he brought into the lives of millions." 

These are true words; but there is here 
more than the nation. Dickens's public 
passes beyond the bounds of our Empire. 
There is America — with its eighty-five 
millions of people and its widespread, its 
fervent, regard 
for Dickens, 
There is France, 
where Daudet 
could write : 
"Little Nell and 
Paul Do m bey 
came to me as a 
revelation of 
purity and inno- 
cence." There is 
Germany, where, 
as Bunsen said, 
lt Dickens com- 
pels tears and 
la u gh ter amongb t 
Germans as 
amongst his own 
people." There 
is Russia, where 
Tolstoi relates 
that he found 
the M Christmas 
Carol n in the 
cabins of the 
humblest serfs, 
and where 
"Oliver Twist" 
and " Nicholas 
Nickleby *' are 
read in seven 
different transla- 
tion s in the 
realms of the 

It is futile to 
multiply evi- 
dences of the universality of the genius of 
Dickens- Next to the Bible and Shakespeare, 
his books enjoy the widest popularity, How, 
then, may the world most fittingly mark the 
centenary of such a man ? 

11 I have always considered/' writes one of the 
great novelist's granddaughters to us, " that a 
man who has done great work needs no other 
memorial than that work itself on the one hand 
and the affect ton of his fellow-men on the other," 

Fmtn a Drawing by Ctmnt lyQrsav* 

This also is true; and Charles Dickens 
needs no memorial greater or other than his 
works. But thcie is another aspect of the 
matter. It is an aspect which must strike 
everyone who contemplates the story of the 
later years of the great novelist's life. We do 
not assert in these days that a rare workman 
must not expect li rare reward. If he pleases 
us, we heap him with tangible proofs of our 
gratitude* Dickens was a good citizen — he 
left a large family. Ills literary gains at his 
death were not small, But he had killed 

himself to win 
them for his 
children and his 
And what did 
Dickens's earn- 
ings amount to ? 
It is an open 
secret that there 
are living writers, 
including writers 
for the stage, who 
amass in two or 
three years what 
the mighty 
genius, the amaz- 
ing popularity, 
of I )ickens could 
only accumulate 
in a lifetime. 
Why is this? It 
is owing to the 
privileges of a 
copyright law 
which Dickens 
did not live to 

From America 
— t hat land 
where his works 
were acclaimed 
with such en- 
thusiasm—he re- 
rtived no royal- 
ties whatever. 

" Were each 
American who 
hud derived pleasure from a book of Charles 
Dickens/' wrote Mr. R. W. Gilder, "to pay 
Dickens or his heirs for that book so small 
a sum as five cents (2*4d>) in royalties, the 
aggregate would not be thousands, but 
millions of dollars." . 

At present 1 51flrcKyfftrv .is teeming with 
count lessfTOftiohi'or^ upon which no 

royalty is paid. Is there any sign of a waning 
in Dickens's popularity ? Is there any slacken- 



ing in the sale of his works ? Here 
is what his old publishers, Messrs. 
Chapman and Hall, write to us ; — 
** Despite the competition of 
dozens of unauthorized editions, 
rendered possible by the lapse of 
copyright, we find that 
the sales of Dickens 
show no diminution. 
In fact, it is probable 
that more volumes of his works 
are sold now than ever before. 
They have, of course, to be pub- 
lished at a popular price, and the 
publishers make less out of them, 
but the actual number sold is, 
we think, as great as ever," 

" I do not think there has ever been a 

time," says Sir Frederick Macmillan, of 

Messrs, Macmillan and Co., "since the 

famous works of Dickens first appeared, 

when he has made a 

wider appeal, or when 

the aggregate sales 

were larger than they 

are to-day." 

It is this perennial 
popularity of Dickens 
which we must take 
into consideration 
when we speak of the deht which 
the world owes his genius. It is a debt that 
cannot possibly be represented in pounds, 
shillings, and pence. But ought we — benefi- 
ciaries of his genius — to lose sight of Dickens's 
earthly dues altogether? He died at fifty- 
eight. Had he lived to seventy, as Thomas 
Hardy has done, he would have died possessed 
of tenfold the wealth he left 
in 1870. Had he lived to 
eighty, as Meredith did, he 
would have seen American 
copyright, for which he strove 
so eloquently, less for himself 
than for his fellow-authors, an 
established fact. He did not 
live to see it ; he died pre ma- 
turely aged, leaving eight chil- 
dren and earnings that often 
accrue to a 
res pec table solicitor. 

To-day there survive three 
children and seventeen grand- 
children of Charles Dickens. 
Some of these, bearing his 
name, are, through no fault 
of their own, in circum- 
stances which must deeply 
concern, not to say pain, 

lovers of Dickens. Three are 
in receipt of trifling Civil List 
pensions. It is not that any of 
these complain of their lot. Far 
from it, The fact that they are 
obliged to earn a precarious 
livelihood each 
accepts with cheer- 
fulness* No, it is 
not that. The q u es 1 i on is rath c r, 
What would Dickens himself say 
were he alive to-day— were he to 
behold hundreds of thousands of 
his works teeming from the press, 
millions turning to him for com- 
fort and entertainment and 
spiritual refreshment, laughing at 
his fun and weeping over his pathos, enjoy- 
ing to the full all that feast he so bounte- 
ously spread before them, while those 
grandchildren whom he loved are driven to 
accept a Government 
pension of twenty -five 
pounds per annum ? 

But here the idea of 
charity must not he 
entertained. It is not 
charity to present the 
collateral descendants of 
Lord Nelson with an 
annual pension of .£5,000. A 
Dickens celebration there must be. 
Why should it not take the form of an 
International Dickens Testimonial? It is 
not charity to present a friend or a bene- 
factor with a purse of a thousand pounds, 
Why should not those who are grateful to 
Dickens's memory, and wish to pay their 
tribute, contribute to such a 
testimonial ? One reason 
would be that the lovers of 
Dickens are largely those w T ho 
can least afford to give, and 
the difficulty and cost of col- 
lecting small sums are very 

There Is one way m which 
it could be done. It could 
be done without making 
any demands 
of a charitable nature, with- 
out soliciting, without re- 
ceiving any subscriptions, 
without acknowledging any 
subscriptions ; a simple ex- 
pedient in which the poor 


share together. It is esti- 
mated that there are 



twenty-four million copies of Dickens's works 
extant, allowing for loss through wear and 
tear. Were it conceivable that every 
possessor of one of these volumes were to 
pay one penny in super-royalty it needs little 
knowledge of 

arithmetic to V\J"^ ■" ^V/v 

arrive at the sum 
of one hundred 
thousand pounds. , J 
But this h incon- J 
ceivable. Many 
might have copies 
of Dickens's 
works on their S 
shelves and yet L 
feel no sense of l^ 
personal gratitude ^ 
towards the s 
author. Were a ^ 
quarter of the ^ 
number to con- 
sent that each 
volume should 
bear a Dickens 
stamp — certifying 4 
that a " deferred >> 
royalty" of one d. 
penny had been 4 
paid —a very large r 
sum might be J 
realised, without ^ 
trouble, without 
expense, and 
without prejudice. 

This is the scheme which we propose, and 
which, unless some unforeseen obstacle arises, 
will be duly carried into effect. In itself this 
Dickens stamp will be a work 
of art—yet unobtrusive, small, 
simple, and of a tint to suit the 
character of the volume. 

Numerous famous Dickens - 
lovers — and amongst these are 
numbered some of the most 
exalted in the land — have already 
been approached in the matter, 
and have promised that each 
volume of the works of the 
Master they own shall bear a 
copy of this Dickens stamp, The 
stamp will be on sale all over 
the world during the year 191 j, 
and then, on the one hundredth 
birthday of the creator of Pickwick and Weller, 
Tiny Tim and Little Nell, the Dickens Fellow- 
ship would be enabled to hand the total sum 
io the representatives of the Dickens family 
to make such use of it as they wis/u 

It is, perhaps, hardly necessary to say that 
so interesting a scheme commands the appro- 
bation and support of scores of eminent men 
and distinguished writers, a list of whom will 
duly be published. In the meantime it is 

only necessary to 
"I refer to a few. 
"The proposed 
scheme of issuing 
stamps for Dic- 
kens's works," 
writes Thomas 
Hardy, "is a 
highly ingenious 
one, and I can 
see no objection 
to it" Others 
who personally 
support it are 
Chief Justice 
Lord A 1 vers tone, 
Sir Ray Lan~ 
k ester, Sir Law- 
rence Alma* 
Tadema, Mr, 
Walter Crane^ Mr. 
W. W, Jacobs, 
Mr. Percy Fitz- 
gerald, Mr. Gil- 
bert Chesterton, 
Mr. Harold Beg- 
bie, Canon Ben- 
ham, and Mr. 
Hugh Thomson. 





The following interesting letter has been 
received from Mr. Arthur Morrison, the 
novelist, which states the case with great 
force and feeling* 

"The children and grand- 
children of Charles Dickens, 1 ' he 
writes, " have been robbed in due 
form of law according to a long- 
established principle of civiliza- 
tion. Authors and their depen- 
dents are weak in numbers, and 
the property they have created 
is j>eailiarly easy of attack ; which 
reasons are considered sufficient 
to sanctify the pillage. It is true 
that we defer the date when the 
theft shall be legalized ; much 
as though we celebrated the 
seventh anniversary of a 
citizen's death by authorizing any footpad 
to snatch hh watch fr-uni his orphan's pocket. 
Other| Mf4M-rt-t^4iH lai&fHi; I**" France and Italy, 
from some uneasy sense of shame, have 
deferred the day of brigandage beyond our 




Digitized by ^jOOglC | ND | ANA UNIVERSITY 




limit ; but we compound, as is our way, by a 
moral pretence. We say that the extinction 
of the author's copyright is for the general 
benefit, exactly as it would be to empty a 
tradesman's till among the crowd outside his 
shop. In this sense we plead the benefit of 
the public, by which, however, we mean the 
publishers ; for I have never encountered any 

Commission contemplated protecting an 
author^ property in his work as if it were 
a house or a suite of furniture. The hope 
is less than ever, now that the plunder of all 
minorities is become an avowed principle of 
State ; but in any case the sack of the 
Dickens family is already complete. Surely 
there must be among us those who are willing 

Prom an Oil Painting b$ E. Gnt^ 

proposal to compel the publishers to issue 
their reprints with no profit to themselves. 

t€ Thirty-two years ago a Royal Commission 
recommended that the law of copyright should 
be * reduced to an intelligible and systematic 
form/ Of course, nothing of the sort has 
been done, for how many votes can. the 
authors of this country barter at an election? 
And in any case I cannot suppose that the 

to restore some small fraction of their own 
shares of the loot, by means of this ingenious 
and admirable scheme of which you inform 

11 Booksellers should sell the stamps at the 
same time m [he, bocks ; and it would be 
an inter^P^^^rriE^Stl^though I scarcely 
expect to see it tried — if a publisher were to 
issue reprints of Dickens's books with or 






without the stamp, at a penny difference in 
price. The result might afford some addition 
to the statistics of common honesty. And, 
lastly, even the possessors of copyright editions 
of the books will have an opportunity, by the 
signal of the Dickens stamp, of declaring 
them sd vers no condoners of public larceny/ 1 

i( I need scarcely say," writes Mr. Theodore 
Watts-Dunton, "that I profoundly approve 
of any scheme for lightening the pressure 
of the monstrous copyright law upon the 
descendants of great writers. It is appalling 
to think of the vast sum that Dickens's 
descendants have been robbed of. If the 
ownership of his copyrights had been vested 
in him for a lunger period, these copyrights 
would have had immensely more market 
value during his lifetime, and he would not 
have felt compelled to augment his income 
by those readings which killed him." 

Among writers of the present day who 






have caught much of the spirit of the Master 
is the author of "Tatterley," 

4i I do not kndw," writes Mr, Tom Gallon, 
"from whose brain sprang this idea of the 
* Dickens Testimonial,' but it seems to me to 
be a very fine one. I know that I personally 
shall buy a number of the stamps — not 

merely for the many editions I possess of the 
great writer's works, but because I think I 
shall be doing it in a splendid cause. 

" When you come to the question of literary 
copyrigH«[B.aBMI*WsfflB3ii¥le to let my pen 
run away with me ; the whole thing, even in 
these days, is too monstrous for words. That 



a man or a woman, entering upon this 
difficult and hazardous business, probably the 
most difficult and hazardous in the world, 
must do so with the knowledge that they 
cannot possibly build up anything for those 
who come after them, is a crying scandal ; 
any ordinary lawyer would laugh at the idea 
that in any other business in the world could 
it be possible that, after a certain number of 
years, any total stranger might step in and 
seize the whole thing and make profits for 
himself without paying a single farthing to 
those to whom, rightly, a share of those 
profits belongs. As has been suggested, 
Charles Dickens received no royalties what- 
ever from America at any time ; and that 
from a country where literally millions of 
copies of his works have been sold. 

u Were the thing not so painful, it would 
be laughable to think that some of the 
descendants of one of the greatest writers the 
world has ever known have to be dependent 
upon a tiny Civil Service Pension, wrung 
from reluctant hands. I am heartily with 
you in this scheme." 

Mr. Robert Barr is heartily in support 
of the scheme. He writes : " I think the 
plan for a Charles Dickens Testimonial is a 
most excellent one ; iruly democratic, 
although it deals with ' deferred royalty ' ; and 
I hope that democracy will rise to the 
occasion, and furnish an imperial amount . 
for the descendants of the most democratic 
novelist who ever lived. 

" I trust also that as a by-product this far- 
reaching effort will awake public attention to 
the gross injustice of the Copyright Act, 
in taking away from a writer's heirs the 
property he created, and presenting it as a 
free gift to the undeserving public. A com- 
poser of books and an inventor of machinery 
are the two real creators of our time, yet the 
Copyright Law and the Patent Acts make 
the possession of their products ephemeral ; 
while a landed estate, not of human creation, 
may pass down the ages for ever to the heirs 
of the man who first acquired it, but had 
nothing to do with its making." 

Mr. K\d& Haggard says : " Your thought 
is kind, but I fear not very practical. The 
fruit of an author's brain has always been 
held to belong to those who can take it, and 
it is with difficulty that such folk have wrung 
from the State even the very limited protec- 
tion for their work which it at present grants 
to them. 

" This being so, it seems almost too much 

to hope that any extensive voluntary offering 
will be made even to aid the descendants of 
one so great as Dickens. 

" Still, the experiment can be tried. I 
hope that it may succeed." 

Mr. Coulson Kernahan writes to us as 
follows : "I am ashamed that pressure of 
work has so long delayed me from answering 
your letter. I believe that to this day the 
descendants of certain great soldiers enjoy 
perpetual emoluments from the nation. If 
any endowments of the sort there be — and 
apart from the question whether any direct 
descendants of Dickens are or are not in 
affluent circumstances — the nation would be 
honouring itself as well as Dickens in seeking 
thus to express its gratitude. Nor do I feel 
that there need be any hesitation on the part 
of descendants in accepting such a tribute. 
To be pensioned by the nation in recognition 
of services rendered by an immediate relative 
is an honour. But failing such national 
memorial, your proposal — assuming that it 
has the approval of those entitled to approve 
or dissent — seems to me sensible and 
eminently practical." 

There is one point to be noted, and this 
point has been raised by both Mr. Edmund 
Gosse and Mr. M. H. Spielmann. "The 
memory and fame of Charles Dickens," 
writes the former, " are very dear to me, and 
I should welcome any practical scheme for 
benefiting his family, who have suffered to a 
grotesque extent under our anomalous law of 
copyright." But would a bibliophile affix 
a stamp to his volumes? Mr. Spielmann 
answers the question. " I cordially approve 
of the object of your scheme. Whether 
Dickens lovers who are also book-lovers will 
care to affix the stamps to their volumes is 
another matter. Personally, I should prefer 
to pay forfeit of a dozen stamps per volume, 
and gladly pledge myself to do so." 

Such is the preliminary announcement of 
our scheme for a Great Dickens Memorial. 
If all goes well, full particulars regarding the 
date when the Dickens stamps will be on sale 
will be duly announced. From all booksellers 
and stationers in the United Kingdom, in 
America, in the capitals of Europe, and 
throughout the British Empire we hope that 
it will soon be possible to obtain this Dickens 
stamp — itself a small token that the name 
and fame of Dickens are still potent to evoke 
gratitude and to redress a manifest injustice 
towards those he loved and who bear his name 

Tne \\^onderful Bishop 


Illustrated ty W. R. S. Stott. 

DRAL is beautiful, and 
though the Bishop loved it 
he said he was lost in such 
a quiet, old-world diocese. 
He belonged to the militant 
clergy, and yearned to be 
Bishop of London; for London is full of 
opportunities, and undoubtedly his lordship 
was a sportsman and loved sporting chances. 
He was a mighty big man, and always in 
condition. He felt lie could go into the 
ring of London and fight there just as he had 
fought bargees at Oxford. He loved his 
work, his wife, and difficulties. And there 
was not a difficult incumbent in the diocese, 
for he had the gift of carrying conviction as 
easily as he could carry two hundredweight. 
He herded his clergy like sheep, and yawned 
as he did so. Had it not been for a peculiar 
suavity and a quality of blandness which 
marked him for the higher ranks of the 
Church, some might have thought him better 
suited for the Army. But everyone loved 

He often went to town to try and induce 
the authorities to give him a bigger and 
rowdier diocese. He had begun as a curate 
in Stepney, and the very remembrance of the 
East of London was enchantment to him. 
Even then he had been wonderful. On one 
occasion he had come across two hostile 
coal-whippers in Old Gravel Lane, and had 
reduced them to peace by knocking their 
thick heads together. There is reason to 
suppose that the Reverend Anthony Sedgwick, 
as he then was, first contemplated the notion 
of becoming a bishop owing to what one of 
the coalies said when h6 recovered his senses. 
"Wot!" said the coaly. "'Im on'y a 
curate ! Why, the fightin' blighter ought to 
be a bishop ! " \ 

He went up to town in April and took 
Mrs. Sedgwick with him. Loving life as he 

did, they stayed in the Strand. When he had 
done a little business it suddenly occurred 
to him that he had not been to Stepney for 
years. Stepney called to him, and so did 
Old Gravel Lane in Wapping. He walked all 
the way there, taking in life as he did so with 
infinite gusto. The verger at his old church 
shed tears at seeing him. 

"Oh, it's you, sir, Mr. Sedgwick, I means 
your lordship," said old Jackson. "Oh, my 
lord, it seems only yesterday that you knocked 
the 'eads of them two coalies together in Old 
Gravel Lane. Oh, wot a mem'ry for the 
parish, your lordship ! We was proud of 
you. ;> 

" Most gratifying, I'm sure," said the 

"And wot's more, your lordship looks 
equal to doin* that same this very minute," 
said Jackson. 

" I dare say I could," said the Bishop. 

He found the vicar, who asked him to take 
pot-luck at the old vicarage. When he had 
openly telephoned to his wife from a low 
public-house, into which no one but a bishop 
would have ventured, he went home with Mr. 
Slowcombe. He did not know that the joker 
of the bar stuck up a notice, which remained 
for days, that the public-house was "patronized 
by his Reverence the Bishop of Milchester." 
He spent a pleasant evening, and everyone 
fell in love with him. Even the cook, on 
hearing about him from the parlour-maid, 
insisted on taking up the whisky and soda, 
giving as an excuse that Mary had gone out 
to see her mother. It is true that#Mary was 
out, but only just outside the gate. And her 
mother was dressed in the uniform of a soldier 
who was stationed at the Tower and was 
likely to be late into barracks. 

It was ow account of his desire not to be 
late that: the Bishop left early, and it is odd 
to reflect, as he often reflected afterwards, 
that he might have been much earlier if he 



had stayed later. But even a bishop cannot 
know everything, as is obvious to all who 
read the debates in the House of Lords ; and 
no bishop is expected to be a prophet, even 
of the minor order. 

The natural and native malignity in matter 
which devises all kinds of trouble for humanity 
does not spare the episcopacy, and even if an 
archbishop were to choose to go West by way 
of Brook Street and St. George's Street, Shad- 
well, instead of the Commercial Road, he 
might easily get into trouble. For out of 
St George's Street runs Old Gravel Lane, 
and when the Bishop of Milchester came to 
it he was reminded of his youthful triumph 
which the verger Jackson was full of, and he 
turned towards his greatest adventure with 
something of the feeling that might have 
inspired Napoleon if he had revisited Areola 
as Emperor. But the odd thing was, and, of 
course, he did not know it, that, his greatest 
adventure was to come. Not yet did he 
know the depths or the heights of his 
character as the equal of fighting men and 
the superior of the common clergy. 

It was dark overhead, and the air was 
somewhat foggy when he turned down Old 
Gravel Lane. He strode along happily, 
contented with everything except his quiet 
diocese. There was something very pleasant 
to him in the fact that Jackson remembered 
him chiefly for his physical prowess. To be 
remembered only for one's preaching or for 
mere goodness is, no doubt, much ; but to be 
notable after twenty years for a remarkable 
feat of strength and courage is indeed 

"I only gave Jackson half a sovereign," 
said the Bishop ; " next time I'll double it." 

As everyone knows, Old Gravel Lane 
leads into Wapping High Street But though 
the High Street is rich and respectable, with 
gigantic and prosperous steamship wharves, 
the Lane in parts is, perhaps, not so respect- 
able. Even twenty years of sanitation and 
police have not wholly destroyed its ancient 
reputation. There are feeble folk, the coneys 
of the West-end, who would fear to tackle 
the East at any time, even when the sun 
shines, but the Bishop of Milchester was of 
the militant order. He did not whistle, but 
he felt capable of whistling, for he was at 
peace with himself and the world at large. 
And yet within five minutes he was by no 
means at peace, for all of a sudden he heard 
a scream in front of him, just as he passed 
the unsavoury entrance of Prusom Street. 

"Dear me!" said the Bishop. "Now, 
where did that come from ? " 

He heard it again, and was then sure it 
was a woman in trouble. His chivalrous 
instincts, wholly unsubdued by time and 
experience, were as quick as when he adorned 
the House at Oxford, and they made him 
hurry now. Obviously someone was in want 
of assistance. He came to an alley named 
Hilliard's Court, and found a woman being 
punched by one of the superior sex. She 
had her hands up to her face to shield herself 
while the person of the more worthy gender, 
according to the Latin Grammar, was giving 
her what is known as "what for" or "toko." 
If he had been where he deserved to be, the 
police-court journalist would have described 
him as "a young man of powerful build, 
apparently a pugilist," and the Bishop, who 
had as grand an eye for physique as a trainer, 
knew instinctively that he was in for some 

" Here, stop that, I beg," said the Bishop, 
courteously, but somewhat peremptorily. 

The young man of powerful build stopped 
with his hand in the air. 

"Stop wot? 'Oo are you? D'ye want 
yer jaw bust ? " he asked. 

" Certainly not," said the Bishop ; " but I 
beg you will not continue to assault this 
young woman." 

" Til 'it 'er as much as I likes," the man 
replied, savagely, "so lemme see you say as 
I won't" 

He cuffed the cowering girl as he said so. 

" Don't do that again," said the Bishop, 
severe! y . 

"Oh," don't, Bill," said the girl ; "do mind 
wot the genelman says. I never done 

"All right," said Bill, savagely ; "I'll fix 
you arter I've done up this josser." 

He left the entrance of the court and 
came into the Lane, which was then very 

" Why indulge in violence ? " urged the 
Bishop, mildly ; " it does no good." 

" Gahn," said Bill. And with that he let 
out at the Bishop with his left. His lordship 
stopped it neatly. If Bill had been quite 
sober, he would have recognized that it was 
no accidental stop. Nor was his lordship's 
calm that of a casual cleric in unexpected 

"I don't want to hurt you," said the 

Whereupon even the wretched girl giggled. 
She couldn't help it. The notion of a parson 
— for now they both saw that he belonged to 
the order of parsons — hurting her Bill, "a 
notorious 'ard nut," was irresistibly amusing. 



It made Bill smile savagely as he fell into a 
more professional attitude* He feinted with 
his left and then swung with his right at the 
Bishop's jaw. His lordship saw it coming, 
and got his head out of the way very nicely 
and caught Bill on the right ear. By now 
the ornament of Milchester was aware that 
Bill could fight, and he wished he had no 
overcoat on. Before he could formulate the 
wish Bill rushed in, taking a heavy blow on 
his forehead as he did so. He landed on 
the episcopal left eye very severely, taking 
something in exchange that made him cough. 

"Nonsense, my good man. I can lick 
you easily," said the Bishop. " I'm two stone 
heavier than you." 

" Are you ? " said Bill, who was very indig- 
nant. "Wen I've done wiv you we'll talk 
abaht that." 

He ran in. The Bishop stopped him every 

" Lick him, Bill," said the young lady. 
And the Bishop almost groaned at her ingrati- 
tude. Bill was much encouraged and mixed 
things up. As a result, Bill went over with a 
bang which drove the breath out of his body. 
This gave his lordship time to get his over- 
coat off. 

" I'll smash you for that, you lop-eared 
leper," said Bill, u ho was a fireman and used 
fearful language. He rose and rushed in. 
The Bishop slipped him neatly and Bill went 
down again. 

"You see, I'm better than you at this 
game," . urged the Bishop. " I'm not really 
fighting yet I don't like fighting ; really I 

He could not help thinking that it was a 
very awkward situation Suppose it got into 
the papers. The Bishop felt that his Arch- 
bishop would be worried, especially if Bill 
got seriously hurt And the Bishop began 
to think that that was what would happen in 
a minute. 

" I shall forget I'm a Bishop in two shakes 
of a lamb's tail," thought his lordship. 

" You ain't goin* to let a parson lick yer, 
Bill ? " cried the cause of all the woe. 

" Not 'arf," roared Bill, furiously. 

Up to now, what the Bishop said wast 
perfectly true. He had done no leading off, 
and had only countered once or twice. Now 
he became angry. Bill had hurt him. No 
sooner had Bill squared up at him again than 
the Bishop forced the fighting. Bill's view 
of the' matter during the next few seconds 
was that he had made " a fatal error," and 
That he had run up against one of the first 
light who was going about in disguise. It 

was true that he hit the Bishop, for he was 
no mean hand at the game ; but when it 
came to half- arm fighting the excellent 
Bishop was all over him, as they say in the 
language of the Fancy. And as they sailed 
all round the Lane the Bishop was suddenly 
aware that the girl was running away from 
them. He wondered why. This distracted 
his attention a little, and Bill got home on 
him. The next moment Bill received a heavy 
right-hand cross-counter on the ear and went 

" Now will you be quiet ? " said the 
Bishop. And just then he heard a rush 
behind him. He turned in time to see Bill's 
young lady coming back with assistance in 
the shape of two other friends from Prusom 
Street. There was a third in the distance. 

" Oh ! " said the Bishop. He thought very 
rapidly, and came to the conclusion that to 
fight four men in a badly-lighted, narrow 
street was not according to the rubric As 
Bill was rising he ran some way down the 
lane, and was followed by his new opponents 
and the fireman. Just at that moment a 
church clock struck eleven. The Bishop 
wished it was twelve and all over. He 
hadn't the least notion of what would happen 
before then, or he would have preferred it to 
stay eleven o'clock for a long time. But, of 
course, he had no time to think. He was 
much disturbed — indeed, he was seriously 
angry. He almost forgot his wife, and quite 
forgot he was a bishop. He was not allowed 
to forget that he could fight. The four men 
caught him up, and he stopped with his back 
against the wall. 

" All right, my covey, we'll stash you," said 
one of the new-comers. His lordship won- 
dered what "stash" meant Whatever it 
implied, he hoped it wouldn't happen. 

"Stand off," said the Bishop, breathing 
very fast " I'll fight all of you one at a 

" No, you won't," said Bill ; " we'll teach 
yer, yer blighter, to come shovin' yer oar in 
where it ain't wanted." 

"That's right, Bill," yelled the girl that the 
fireman had been punching; "you can 'it me 
w'en you likes." 

The four of them made a rush at his lord- 
ship, Bill in the van. And Bill went down. 
So did another, whose name, from what the 
girl said, appeared to be Ginger. But the 
Bishop received three very severe blows, and 
Bill and Ginger got up again. The next 
momerM: was extremely lively, for by dint of 
an enveloping movement they succeeded in 
getting his lordship's back away from the 



mill, where some sort of safety lay. In spite fighting four men. It's most extraordinary." 

of his ability in the noble art of self-defence, And suddenly his mind said to him, 

ihe Bishop felt that he was slower than he " Run, if you get a chance, or you will get 

had been twenty years before, though he was, killed." 

perhaps stronger at forty-three than he had The next moment he found himself 


been at twenty-three* When the general mix- 
tip came in the middle of the road one of the 
men jumped on his back. What happened 
then the Bishop could never describe, but he 
was aware that the whole party tried to jump 
on him. He got to his feet three times, and 
at the third time grew desperate. But in the 
very worst of the struggle one part of his 
mind was very cool It was also very much 
surprised- He kept on saying, "I'm the 
Bishop of Milchester, This is Old Gravel 
Une. I, the Bishop of Milchester, am 

running as hard as he could put foot to 
the ground. 

"I fear I'm in a lamentable condition," 
said the Bishop, or the cool part of his mind, 
"a very lamentable condition," 

It was sadly true, His coat was torn off 
his back, his collar was gone, and so was his 
episcopal apron. In the first fierce roll on 
the ground GmgeVJ'WHfe was a very bad 
characterltiRlf.^lllM*fcft£IIA" the police, had 
grabbed his watch. Ginger also had a cool 
portion of his mind at work. The beautiful 

r 54 


cause of the war had the Bishop's hat as a 
trophy. She followed the hunt, yelling with 
much joy, 

In his youth the Bishop had been a great 
swimmer. Once he swam from Folly Bridge 
to Iffley, At the present moment he thought 
of the water as the only possible refuge. If 

quarters flood. Ginger, who yearned for 
more plunder, was hot on his tracks. The 
Bishop knocked him down, and, turning, 
jumped into the river. When he rose he saw 
four dark figures on the steps he had dived 
from* They used blood curdling and unprint- 
able language, which would have made the 

rnrc Hisifor knocked him down, and, turning, jumi-kd into tug kivkk* 

he could get the river at his back he could, 
he felt sure, elude his pursuers. He came to 
Wapping High Street. Though he did not 
know it he was close to Wapping Station, and 
might have taken refuge there. But now it 
was foggy, and he could not see his way 
clearly. Before he knew it he was rushed by 
his pursuers into the narrow way leading to 
the river steps. A stone whistled by his ear* 
^ T e saw the water, and actually rejoiced at its 
ild glitter as it ran upstream at three- 

pages of a decent slang dictionary curl up 
and burst into flame* 

"Ah! I've done them," said the Bishop, 
coolly. He was cool once more. So was the 
river. Again he was a bishop — not a 
primitive man, not a mere athlete. 


of it. ■ N 1 J Hf^naf ' 6tt v fiRAU What the halfpenny 
Press would make of it. Where shall I get 
ashore? What would the Dean think if he 



knew I was in the middle of the River Thames 
near Wapping at midnight ? What would 
Mildred think ? She would be greatly alarmed. 
I wonder if I am much knocked about? I 
fear I am. Dear me, it's getting very 

It was undoubtedly getting rather thick. 
The lights along the river suddenly grew 
dim. Some of them went out, or appeared 
to go out, and in less than a minute his lord- 
ship was swimming without any notion where 
either bank was. And still the tide bore him 

" I hope I hurt nobody seriously/' said the 
Bishop. " But I think that girl treated me 
very badly. I almost wish I had not inter- 
fered. Still, I'm safe now." 

Some people one knows would not have 
committed themselves to such a statement if 
they had been where he was. They are 
afraid of the water — afraid to die. But the 
Bishop struck out manfully. 

" I'm at any rate going up the river," he 
thought He went under the Tower Bridge. 
The tide ran fast. 

" However, I'm glad it's all over," said the 
Bishop. " I'm very glad it's all over." 

No one who is not wise can be a bishop. 
It is true that his wisdom may be limited. 
It often is. The Bishop of Milchester's was. 
He could not foresee everything, and it did 
not occur to him that malignant Fate had not 
yet finished with him, even if Bill and Ginger 
and their mates had been wonderfully eluded 
and beaten. One adventure is mostly the 
father of another, for adventures are always 
to the adventurous, and always will be. 
Suddenly out of the fog on his left hand 
there came shouts and some language worthy 
of Bill of Old Gravel l,ane. The Bishop 
was aware of gloom and aware of the shore, 
and then he heard a splash. Again there 
were shouts and yells of " Police ! " and 

" Dear ipe ! " said the Bishop. " I hope the 
entire population of London is not taking 
to the river to-night. I wonder what has 
happened ? " 

And the fog lifted. He saw barges and 
steamers berthed at a wharf, and he knew that 
he was close to the shore. He turned and 
swam towards it between a barge and a steam- 
ship. He saw high walls, a narrow passage, 
steps awash in the tide, and a small crowd. 

"There's the blighter," said the crowd, 

"Who is the blighter, I wonder?" said the 
Bishop. He knew in a few minutes. 

" It's a fair cop for you," shouted the eager 

crowd, almost tumbling into the water in 
their joy. 

" I believe, I really do believe, that / am 
the blighter," said the Bishop. " I seem to 
have very poor luck to-night. What have I 
done now ? " 

He could see that among the gentry of 
Pickleherring Street, Bermondsey (for it was 
there he made a landing), two policemen, 
one of whom cast his bull's-eye lamp his way, 
while the other did his best to keep the 
crowd from thrusting him and his fellow- 
constable into the river by their desire to be 
in the front row of the stalls. 

" Now, then, you come in here," said the 
policeman with the bull's-eye. 

" Yes, come in, you robbin' 'ound," roared 
a sturdy little person, who appeared to be 
very wet. The Bishop hesitated. It was not 
that he feared the police. No bishop can 
fear them, but his lordship feared for the 
Church. He hated scandal ; he dreaded that 
it would give a handle to Dissenters and 
those eager to disestablish the Church if a 
bishop were arrested, even on a groundless 

" Here, you, sir, come in at once, or 
we'll fetch you in a boat," said the nearest 

"I'm coming," said his lordship. "You 
don't for an instant imagine that I desire to 
stay where I am, do you ? " 

Whereon the crowd laughed. The next 
moment the Bishop found the steps under 
his feet. He stood up and shook the water 
from his head and ears like a big dog. 

"You mis'rable, man-drownin', daylight 
robber, you ! " said the little man, who was 
also wet. "Chuck me in the river, would 
yer? Knock me abaht and rob me, would 
yer? Yah!" 

" Steady there," said the policeman. 
"Come in and give yourself up." 

It was a horrid situation, and the Bishop's 
mind worked rapidly. Had the fog come 
down again he would have risked it and 
taken to the stream again. But there was 
now no fog, and boats were handy. 

"Certainly," said his lordship. But he 
said to himself that on no account, no 
account whatever, must they find out he was 
a bishop. There was little reason to suppose 
that they would discover it for themselves by 
mere inspection. 

"And I'll never f tell them, if I get six 
months/' said the Bishop. He waded up the 
steps and the constable laid his hand on him. 

" Is this about Bill ? " asked the Bishop. 
"Or is it about Ginger?" 







" Be bio wed, you daylight robber you," 
said the little man, dancing angrily; "it's 
abaht me, you blighter. 'It me, would yer ? 
Rob me, would yer? Knock me abaht a 
good 'un, would yer? Lemme git at 'im, 
constable ; wiv fair pl'y I can dahn 'im." 

But the other constable drove his elbows 
into him while he danced and knocked the 
breath out of him as the Bishop came to dry 

"I suppose this is the bloke?" asked the 

" Yus," said the little man. " I identifies 
'im. I knocked 'im abaljt a bit, eh ? " 

That looked certain. Even in the com- 
parative darkness it was obvious that the 
Bishop had been knocked about more than 
a bit 

"I gives 'im in charge for robbery and 
assault and 'eaving of me in the river," said 
the little man. 

"I never saw you in my life," said the 

"Then '00 'it you abaht?" asked the 

" Bill did," said the weary Bishop. 

44 Bill ! 'Oo's Bill ? " they asked, eagerly. 

44 A friend of Ginger's," said the Bishop. 
44 And two others. I don't know their names. 
And I had to jump in to escape them." 

44 Where was that ? " asked the constable. 

44 In Old Gravel Lane," said the Bishop. 

44 Likely tale," said the constables. " You 
come along and tell your yarn at the station." 

44 1 assure you I never saw this man," urged 
the Bishop; " it's ridiculous. " I've swum from 
Gravel Lane." 

44 Liar," said his accuser. " I believe I've 
seed you round abaht Roverive and Ber- 
mondsey often enough. It's 'im, constable ; 
don't take no notice of his guff." 

44 Come on," said the officer of the law, 
and the Bishop, feeling that there was 
nothing to do but obey, went with them. 

44 It gets more awful," he thought. " What 
shall I do ? How can I get out of it without 
telling? I won't tell — never, never!" 

They went towards Tower Bridge, down 
Pickleherring Street, and under an arch into 
Shad Thames. The joyful crowd ran by his 
side and even before him, turning round as 
they got in front. 

"For the sake of everything, I must not 
tell," thought the Bishop. " I must get out 
of it somehow. But how ? " _ 

That was a serious question, and one that 
many in like situations have found difficult to 

"I'm not the man he thinks I am, 

constable," he said, as he went along. The 
constable looked at him. The voice was 
certainly not the voice of the sort of man 
who robs half-intoxicated people in Pickle- 
herring Street as a way of earning a living. 

44 Well, it looks awk'ard," said the con- 
stable, grinning. " He says you are, and that 
you fought, and that you both fell into the 
river. And you were in the river, and you're 
knocked about very pretty." 

44 Yes, I am ; but Bill and Ginger did it," 
said the Bishop. 

44 It sounds pretty thin," said the constable. 

" Do you think that that man could knock 
me about like this?" asked the Bishop, who 
did not care to have it thought that a nine- 
stone man in Bermondsey could thrash 

44 Well, I've never reckoned little Booker 
to be the slogger he thinks he is," said the 
constable. " I own that. Have you anyone 
to speak for you ? " 

44 To speak for me?" asked the Bishop. 

44 To give you a good character ? " replied 
the constable. 

44 A whole diocese," said the Bishop, 

44 A whole whatl" saia the constable. 

44 1 mean, thousands will do it," replied 
the Bishop, hastily. 

44 Good characters ? " 

44 The highest," said the Bishop. "But " 

" But what ? " 

44 1 shouldn't like to ask them," said the 

44 1 dare say not," said the constable, dryly. 
44 I've 'ad 'old of them as could call the 'ole 
'Ouse of Lords, but some'ow didn't." 

44 You don't believe me, I fear," said the 
Bishop. " I own it looks awkward." 

44 Very awk'ard," said the constable, whereon 
he and his fellow laughed. So did the crowd. 

There is nothing so humorous and exciting 
as to see a man taken to the public station. 
It is as good as a fire and almost as enjoyable 
as a funeral. 

By the time they climbed the steps to the 
Tower Bridge the crowd had increased. 
Each new-comer asked for information and 
got it. He added to it and passed it on. 
The Bishop's crime increased as rapidly as 
the crowd. With fifty it was assault ; with 
a hundred something as bad as arson ; and 
with two hundred " murder." 

44 Yah, murderer ! " yelled the late-comers. 
" 'Oo's 'e murdered?" 

By the time'-'lnlatif We 'crowd was rapidly 
coming to the conclusion that it would be 
the proper thing to lynch him and have don< 



with it, they reached the police-station. Here 
they booed and yelled till they were moved 
on by all the members of the force who were 

" 1 must trust in Providence," said the 
Bishop, with a sigh which was curiously 
human, as he went up the steps. 

And the next minute he was face to face 
with the arbiter of his destiny in the shape 
of a jovial, red-faced house-inspector with 
a close- cropped, white moustache. The 
Bishop's eye— the one he could easiest look 
out of — saw at once that this powerful person, 
this minor Rhadamanthus of the wharf-side, 
was such a man as might one time have 
fought in the ring. The thickened ear, the 
massive throat, the flattened nose, all told 
their fine, unflattering tales of joyous combats 
long ago. And when the inspector set his 
eyes on the Bishop he, too, was as much 
impressed in his way as the Dean and 
Chapter of Milchester would have been in 
their way. Undoubtedly the Bishop was a 
splendid-looking man, leaving out his face at 
the moment. Minus his coat, now in rags 
and also in the river, the spread of his 
shoulders was notable. His torn shirt dis- 
closed the slope of the trapezius muscle to 
his rounded neck. - It was obvious that his 
waist was slender in comparison with his 
chest measurement, but not too slender to 
be sheathed with muscles able to defy, if 
properly tightened, a low right-hand cross- 

" A proper devil of a chap," thought the 
inspector. " I'd like to see him box a round 
or two with Charlesworth." 

For Charlesworth, who with Smith had 
brought the Bishop in, was the champion of 
the division and a very fair hand with the 
mitts, as everyone knew who knew anything. 
Or so the inspector believed. 

"What's this, Charlesworth?" 

" Assault an' battery and chuckin' a chap 
into the river, sir," said the constable. 

" Assault, battery, and attempted murder, 
eh ? " repeated the inspector. " Who's charg- 
ing him ?" 

" I ham," said the excited little man ; " but 
to look at 1m it seems I got a bit of my own 
back, don't it?" 

" I never saw you in my life before," said 
the Bishop. 

" Hold your tongue. You'll have your show 
presently," said the inspector. " What hap- 
pened, Booker?" 

It appeared that the inspector knew the 
complainant well. Unluckily for the Bishop, 
le knew nothing against him. 

" This 'ere cove comes up to me on the 
steps in Pickleherring Street and says, says 
he : ' 'Ave you the price of a pot abaht you ? ' 
And, big as he was, I says, says I : * I 'ave, 
but not for the likes of you, big as you are/ 
says I. And wivaht anovver word 'e ups and 
'its me and dahns me, and I ups and 'its 'im 
very 'ard, as you see. And then the blighter 
dahns me again and goes through my pockets, 
and we rolls off the steps togevver, me 
hollerin' * Murder ! ' and punchin' 'im all the 
time. And in the water I loses of 'im and 
some'ow I gets ashore. And then we sees 
'im in the river and. we arrests 'im. I want 
'im jailed for 'six months' 'ard, at the very 

" Oh, do you ? " asked the inspector. 

" Yus," said Booker, " or I'll murder 'im. 
If it 'adn't bin dark and me a bit beery I'd 
ha' licked 'im then, big as he is." 

" Nonsense," said the inspector ; " you 
couldn't beat the man in a month of Sundays." 

" Of course not," said the Bishop. 

" Look 'ow I knocked 'im abaht," urged 
Booker, who was very joyous to think he had 
done such execution on this robber's face. 

" It wasn't you at all," said the Bishop. 

" He let on, coming here, that it was 
someone called Bill that hammered him," 
said Charlesworth. 

" And Ginger," corrected the Bishop, 
"and two others, to say nothing of a 

" Where was this ? " asked the inspector. 

"In Old Gravel Lane," replied his lord- 

" Why, that's the other side of the river," 
said the inspector. 

"That's the reason I swam," said the 

" Did they throw you in the river?" asked 
the inspector. 

" No, I jumped," said the Bishop. 

" Why did you jump ? " asked the 

" To save being thrown in, I think," said the 
Bishop. " I was in an awkward situation." 

" Not 'arf as awk'ard as you are in nah," 
interjected Booker. 

" Silence, Booker ! " said the inspector. 
"But what was all this fight about?" 

" About the girl," said the Bishop. 

"You'd much better 'ave left 'er alone," 
said the irrepressible Booker. 

" If you don't shut up, I'll have you put 
out, Booker/' said the inspector. Then he 
turned to the Bishop. "J 

" All this is very pretty about Old Gravel 
Lane, and I dare say the magistrate will 



believe it — and I dare say he won't Do you 
swear to him, Booker?" 

" On all the Bibles in Bermondsey," said 

"Very well," said the inspector, and, 
turning to the Bishop, he asked him his 

" My name ? " said the Bishop. 

"Any one of 'em will do," interposed 
Booker, scornfully. 

"Shut up, Booker!" said the inspector. 
" Yes, your name." 

"It's — it's Johnson," said the unhappy 

"It's as good a name as there is any- 
where," said the inspector, "and it does so 
'appen it's mine too. Your occupation ? " 

" I'm a — teacher," said the Bishop. 

" Of what — boxin' ? " asked the inspector. 

"Yes, yes, I could teach that," said the 
Bishop, eagerly. 

"Gammon," said Charlesworth, who 
believed he was the only man in the neigh- 
bourhood who could put on the gloves with 

" Shut up, Charlesworth ! " said the 
inspector. " Very well, Johnson ; you'll see 
the magistrate to-morrow and explain this 
matter to him. Take him to the cells, 

And Smith took the Bishop away with 

" It's all wrong," said the Bishop ; " and 
I'm very wet" 

" We can let you have a change of sorts," 
said Smith. 

" I shall be much obliged," said the 
Bishop. " It's an awful situation." 

" Nonsense," said Smith. " I dessay it'll 
only be a month or two. A man like you 
can do it on your head. If the truth was 
known, I dessay you've done it before." 

" Never," said the Bishop. " I want to 
think— to think." 

"Plenty of time to think," said Smith. 
" Here you are." 

And the next moment his lordship was 
acquainted with the miserable interior of a 
cell "for male prisoners only." A minute 
later Smith threw him an old blue shirt, a 
coat, and trousers. 

"Good heavens!" said the Bishop. "I 
wish I could think what was the best 
to do. Really, I'm hardly equal to the 

In the outer office the inspector, having 
ejected Booker for dancing deliriously at the 
prospect of getting the Bishop six " 'ard " in 
the morning, turned to Charlesworth. 

" There's more in this than meets the eye," 
said the inspector. " D'ye believe that 
Booker knocked that chap about?" 

" I dessay," said Charlesworth. " He's 
a hard little nut for his weight." 

" To very soft crackers," said the inspector. 
" He couldn't have mauled that cove mor*n 
he could have mauled you, and less." 

"Less! less! What d'ye mean by less, 
sir ? " asked Charlesworth. 

"What I say," replied the inspector. 
"That cove could take your number down, 
or I'm much mistook, Charlesworth." 

" I'd fight him left-handed," said the dis- 
gusted Charlesworth.. 

"I wish I could see you try with both 
hands," sighed the inspector. "I believe 
he'd put up a real proper scrimmage." 

" If he can stand up to me for five minutes 
I'll eat my helmet," said Charlesworth. 

" Ah, it's a pity " said the inspector. 

" Wot's a pity ? " asked Charlesworth, just 
as Smith came back to them. 

"That you can't put the gloves on with 

"With who?" asked Smith. 

" The inspector lets on this chap in the 
cells could lay me out," said Charlesworth, 
with a look of pained dignity. 

"Now you say it, I'd not be surprised," 
said Smith ; " I've just seed 'im with his shirt 
off. He peels splendid." 

"What did I tell you, Charlesworth?" 
said the inspector, who was absolutely burn- 
ing with the unholy desire to see the prisoner 
box Charlesworth. " I've an idea." 

" What is it ? " asked the others. 

" Do you think Booker could knock you 
about, Charlesworth, as he's done this chap, 
if his tale is true ? " asked the inspector. 

And Charlesworth disdained to answer. 

"And what would you think about Booker's 
tale if this chap could knock you out, Charles- 
worth ? Would it seem likely to you, then ? " 
asked the inspector. 

" It wouldn't," owned Charlesworth. 

" I'm inclined to believe the beggar speaks 
the truth," said his superior ; " except about 
his name and so on. He may not want to 
be known. Those gaiters of his looked 
religious, didn't they?" 

"Stolen," said Charlesworth. "What's 
your notion, sir ? " 

The inspector looked at him and whistled 
gently and reflectively. 

"On my soul, Vm tempted," said the 
inspector. "Smith, ring up Limehouse." 

Smith did as he was told and rang up 
East 200. 



"Here you are sir," he said, presently, 
and the inspector took the receiver from him. 

11 You're Limehouse ? Yes ; I'm Inspector 
Johnson, Tower Bridge. Do you know a bad 
character called Ginger your way ? In Old 
Gravel Lane, or just off it ? All right ; I'll 
hold the line. Yes ; what's that ? You do ? 
Does he run with a chap called Bill ? No, 
we don't know his other name. All right. 
Thank you. Ring off." 

And he turned round to Smith and Charles- 

" There is a bad character in Old Gravel 
Lane called Ginger." 

Charlesworth grunted. 

"There's always a bad character called 
Ginger everywhere." 

" I don't say it's much, but, so far as it 
goes, it's a help," said the inspector. " Find 
me that Booker, Charlesworth. I want to 
speak to him. And, I say, Charlesworth." 

" Yes," said Charlesworth, turning. 

" I suppose, if it was to be arranged, you'd 
put the gloves on with our friend if I backed 
him for a quid?" said the inspector, in a 

"'Arf or double," said Charlesworth, 

"Just fetch that Booker again, and 
I'll see to it," said the inspector. And 
when Smith was gone he went to the 
Bishop's cell. 

" Comfortable, eh ? " he asked. 

"I'm drier, but not to say comfortable," 
returned his lordship. "You see, this is a 
dreadful situation." 

" We think it all right," said the inspector, 
who was jealous of the reputation of Tooley 
Street. " Now about boxing. Can you 
really box ? " 

" I really can," said the Bishop. 

" Now, did you cast your eyes over the 
constables that brought you in, especially him 
I named Charlesworth ? " 

" I did," said the Bishop. 

" Speakin' as man to man, do you think 
you could lick him with the gloves ? " asked 
Johnson, tremulously. 

" I feel pretty sure of it," said the 

" Me 'avin* a sovereign on you ? " 

" I can't imagine it happening," said the 
Bishop ; " but if it did I honestly believe'your 
sovereign would be safe." 

" Very well," said Johnson. " I'll persuade 

Smith had been endeavouring to persuade 
him, but Smith was not a good advocate and 
readily gave way to the inspector. 

"What we want is justice," said the 
inspector, with an anxious and ingratiating 

" Right-o. Six months' 'ard for that bloke," 
said Booker, joyfully. 

"If it's proved against him he'll get it," 
said the inspector. 

" I've proved it," said Booker. " I always 
was a bit of a fighter, and I marked him 

"For a light-weight, Booker is a mighty 
fine scrapper," said the inspector. " Could you 
lick Constable Charlesworth, Booker?" 

"Oh, not 'im," said Booker, modestly. 
" He's a fine scrapper, and four stone more'n 
me if he's an ounce." 

"Then you don't think you could knock 
out Charlesworth ? " 

"No, I don't, and that's a fact," said 
Booker, who had no desire to have it put 
about Bermondsey that he had said anything 
so silly. " Anyone in my own class I'll take 
on any day ; but a known 'eavy-weight ain't 
a good market." 

"Good," said the inspector. "You are a 
sport, Booker ; we have always allowed you 
were. All this talk of scrappin' makes me 
feel eager to see a fight. If I was what I 
used to be, I'd ask Charlesworth to put on 
the gloves with me this very night in my 
brother's room at the 'Are and 'Ounds. I 
believe that blighter in the cells can scrap 
a bit." 

" Reasonable good, but I marked him," 
said Booker. " Didn't you see 'ow I knocked 

" We did," said the inspector. " But he 
let on just now that he could fight Charles- 
worth and lick 'im easy." 

" Never. I can't, and it stands to reason 
he can't," said Booker. 

" You'd like to see him try, I'll lay a quid," 
said the inspector. 

" Wouldn't I just ? " said Booker, eagerly. 
" Charlesworth would be nearly as good to 
'im as six 'ard." 

" If by any chance he licked Charlesworth 
I suppose you'd own you'd made a mistake 
about identifying him ? " said the inspector, 

"Oh, yes, I would," said Booker. "I'd 
admire 'im so much that I'd forgive 'im." 

" Right ; then we'll arrange it if you'll 
say nothing about it afterwards," said the 
inspector. " It's all in the cause of justice, 
but the less said the better." 

" rillNHeraP- ^fli^lfonl 'it," said Booker. 
" I'm a sport, I am." 

"Nor me, to be sure," said Smith, who 



yearned to see Charlesworth reduced in his 
own opinion. 

" It's all in the cause of justice," said 
Inspector Johnson, with a great air of pomp. 
"Our duty is to take no charge if we see 
our way, reasonably, to avoid takin' it." 

" All the same, 'e's the cove," said Booker. 
"But let 'im lick Charlesworth and I'm game 
to say I never see 'im before." 

" I'll send over to my brother," said 
Inspector Johnson, "and in 'arf an hour 
Charlesworth will be off duty. It's half-past 
one now." 

And when the inspector had written a 
note and sent it over to the Hare and 
Hounds by the dirty hand of Mr. Booker, 
he went to see the Bishop. 

"Have you arranged anything?" asked 
his lordship, anxiously. 

"We 'ave," said the inspector. " It's all in 
the cause of law and justice." 

" I'm sure of that," said the Bishop. " I 
hope you have come to the conclusion that 
our friend, whose name I understand to be 
Booker, is mistaken about me ? " 

"We're not that length yet, but we get 
along a bit," said the inspector. *" Just now 
you let on that you could lick Charlesworth ; 
do you still stand to it ? " 

" If it's the only way, I still stand to it, 
Inspector Johnson," said the Bishop. 

"It's logic and reasonin' I'm goin' on," 
said the inspector. 

"Very good things as far as they go," 
admitted the Bishop. 

"And, as Booker owns, if you can lick 
Charlesworth, who can lick him, you can 
lick Booker. And if you can lick Booker, 
you ain't the man Booker licked. That 
stands to reason, don't it?" asked the 

" It does," said the logical Bishop ; " it is 
perfect logic." 

" Then] all you've got to do is to lick 
Charlesworth, and Booker will own he's mis- 
took, and it will be my duty to let you out," 
said the inspector. " You'll do it ? " 

" Must I ? Very well, I will, then," said 
the Bishop. "When must I do it?" 

" In 'arf an hour," said the inspector ; 
"and in the big room at the back of my 
brother's public-'ouse, the 'Are and 'Ounds, 
which is quite 'andy. And don't forget I'm 
putting a sovereign on you." 

" 111 not forget that," said his lordship ; 
" there's much at stake." 

"Oh, I wouldn't go for to say a * thick 'un' 
was a big stake," said the inspector ; " but I 
know youll lick him." 

" Don't forget that I've already fought four 
men to-night," said his lordship. 

" Ah, but you're in condition, and, between 
you and me, Charlesworth ain't. Too much 
beer," said the inspector, confidentially. 

And he left the Bishop alone. 

Ten minutes later he opened the door. 

" Come on," he said, eagerly. " I've got it 
all fixed up, and I will be your second. 
Booker will look after Charlesworth, while 
my brother referees. And as the super- 
intendent has just been in and gone in a 
mighty hurry, I'm all right." 

In another minute they walked across 
Tooley Street and went down two side streets 
towards the Hare and Hounds. When they 
reached the public-house they found the 
inspector's brother waiting for them. He 
was a rubicund, rotund person who did not 
look as if the Budget had robbed him of a 
minute's sleep. But he was evidently ready 
to do without any amount of sleep for the 
sake of seeing a fight. 

" Let's lose no time," said the inspector. 
" Where's Charlesworth ? " 

" Inside," said his brother ; " this way, 

He led them to the back of the house and 
ushered them into a room entirely bare of 
furniture, which looked as if it had often served 
the purpose they were going to use it for now. 
It was lighted by several strong incandescent 
lights overhead. Charlesworth was already in 
fighting trim. He and the Bishop looked at 
each other curiously. 

" I'll second my man," said the inspector. 
"Booker will second Charlesworth; you're 
timekeeper and referee, Tom." 

The Bishop took off his coat, or rather the 
coat which had been lent him at the station, 
tied a handkerchief tightly round his waist, 
rolled up his shirt-sleeves, and asked for the 
gloves. After all, when he was looked at care- 
fully it seemed that Bill and Ginger of Old 
Gravel Lane had done him no very serious 
damage, bar the fact that his left eye was 
somewhat swelled. 

"Queensberry rules, gents," said Tom 
Johnson ; " and don't forget there ain't to be 
no 'uggin' and wrastlin' 'ere. I gives the fight 
against the first that don't break away when 
1 says so." 

The Bishop and Charlesworth stood up and 
shook hands. Charlesworth believed that he 
had an easy thing in front of him. And as 
he did not like Johnson he meant to have 
the inspector's sovereign or perish. He felt 
that he had a great deal behind him, as it 
were — far more than a stray scallawag picked 



out of the river could possibly have. This, 
of course, was where he was wrong. The 
Bishop had the Church at his back, and also, 
in a way, on his shoulders. In fact, so far as 
dire necessity may be a conquering factor, his 
lordship ought to have had as sure a thing 
of it as Charlesworth believed that he had 

Acting on this assumption, Charlesworth 
got to work with rapidity, and in the first 
round greatly flattered the hopes of his sup- 
porter and seconder, Booker. 

"I swears to 'im — I hidentifies 'im easy ! " 
cried Booker, when Charlesworth got home 
on the Bishop's cheek and made him stagger. 
"Go in and win, Charlesworth ! " 

" Dry up, Booker," said the referee, with 
his watch in his hand. 

" All the same, I swears to Im," said 
Booker ; " I swears confident." 

Nevertheless, though Charlesworth had a 
trifle the best of the first round, it was a sur- 
prise to Charlesworth and Booker that the 
other man so nearly held his own. 

" He can box a bit," said Charlesworth to 
Booker as he sat in his corner. 

" So 'e can, but you can belt 'im," said 
Booker. " I still swears to the bloke con- 

" Time's up," said Tom Johnson. 

In the second round the Bishop recollected 
that Charlesworth, according to the inspector, 
drank too much beer. Acting on physio- 
logical principles, his lordship, who knew 
that his own head was very hard, took a rap 
or two there without flinching, and at last 
retorted with a right-hand cross-counter on 
the body, which made Charlesworth grunt 
curiously. For a while he fought with greater 
caution, and when the end of the round came 
he had recovered his wind. 

" When the bloke copped you that one in 
the ribs I wasn't so sure I could swear to 
'im," said Booker. " He's quicker now than 
'e was. You sail in and knock 'im out." 

Charlesworth was anxious to do this, but 
by now he had discovered that it was by no 
means so easy as he had hoped. His 
antagonist had been a little slow at first, but 
it was evident that he knew a deal about the 
game and had a very straight and powerful, 
left. His wind, too, was excellent ; he 
breathed once for Charlesworth's twice, and 
there was a curious smile on his face which 
betokened a growing confidence that Charles- 
worth hated to see there. He tried so hard 
to put that smile out in a tremendous rally 
that he actually knocked the Bishop down. 

" I swears to 'im confident," roared Booker. 

But before Tom Johnson could count three 
the Bishop was on his feet again, and the 
round ended in a hurricane, in which he gave 
as good as he got. 

"'Ow do you feel, sir?" asked the in- 

" First-rate," said the Bishop, puffing just a 
little, but not half so much as Charlesworth. 

" You've got him, then," said the inspector. 
" Force the fighting, sir, force it." 

In the beginning of the next round, in 
which there was heavy " mixing " and some 
attempted hugging on the part of the con- 
stable, the Bishop did very well indeed. 

" Dash me, if I can swear to 'im the way I 
thought I could," said Booker, dancing wildly 
in his corner. The Bishop danced too. He 
slipped out of impossible situations, he side- 
stepped like a professional, and avoided the 
desperate and cyclonic Charlesworth with 
much skill. And just as he was preparing 
to go in furiously the round came to an end 

" If you don't do better than this, Charles- 
worth," said Booker, severely, "I shall dis- 
identify the bloke. There was times in this 
'ere last round when I felt sure I'd never 
seed the cove afore, never knocked 'im abaht 
'E's pretty near got you beat" 

" Oh, has he ? " said Charlesworth, to whom 
this was a much-needed tonic "Well see 
about that." 

" Time ! " said Tom Johnson. 

And Charlesworth rushed at the Bishop 
like a bull at a gate. He saw the Bishop 
clearly with the light shining in his face. 
The next moment he saw nothing and was 
not at all ambitious. In fact, he lay quite 
quietly in the middle of the room, with the 
Bishop over him. 

"One, two, three, four, five, six, seven, 
eight, nine, ten," said Tom Johnson. And 
he closed his watch with a snap. 

" I never seed that cove afore, inspector," 
said Booker. " I disidentifies 'im completely. 
Losh, what a knock-aht ! " 

They gathered round Charlesworth, who 
stirred at last. Booker knelt by him, and 
the constable opened his eyes and closed 
them again. Then he fumbled feebly about 
his shirt. 

" I know what it is," said the inspector ; 
"ain't it remarkable 'ow abit rules a man? 
The pore cove is feelin' for his whistle." 

He was right. 

" Where's my whistle ? " asked Charles- 
worth, feebly. "Who's took it? Run and 
fetch my mate on point duty, my lad" 

" I hope I haven't hurt you," said the 



"Who are you?" asked Charles worth, 

M I believe the poor fellow has forgotten 
about the fight," said his lordship, " This 
is what the medical faculty call retrograde 
amnesia, or so I am informed* It's very 

44 Sir," said Inspector Johnson, "you're an 
honour to the profession, That last punch 
of yours was a treat — a fair treat ! " 

" I believe I am," said the Bishop, blandly. 
" I think I may say that I have only two 
superiors in England ; and. on a technical 
point, I doubt whether one of them is my 

He referred to the two Archbishops, and 
on the technical point to his Grace of 

" Td love to know your real name/* said. 
Johnson j "the name you fights under," 


" Yus* so it was," said Booker, sliding into 
the conversation, "and I disidentifies yer." 

" What ? n asked his lordship, 

'* I disidentifies yen Never seed yer afore. 
I made a fatal error. You ain't a bit like the 
cove I knocked abaht 'E was big, but as 
slow as an old cow. You're a gent, you are 1 " 

By now Charlesworth began to gather up 
his scattered senses* He sat up. 

" You must be Igh up in the profession," 
said Charlesworth, who was not a bad chap 
at bottom. 

"Pm under a peculiar obligation not to 
reveal it, inspector," said his lordship, hastily, 
"but I should be glad if everyone here 
would have something to drink with me. Is 
it against the law, Mr, Johnson?" 

"Sure," said the licensed victualler ; "but 
considerin 1 the circumstances I don't mind 
bustin* that particular law to little bits." 

" Nor me," mid his brother, the inspector, 

"as all|f|[)f^p|^ |^'.^^]%r the sake of law 

"and order and justice. Let this be a lesson 

to you, Booker, not to be 'arty in idenhfyin' 



W-A'-^-l* ' 


blokes in the dark when you're the worse for 

"Well, Idisidentifies T im,"Haid Mr, Booker, 
"and a man can't say more. A cove may be 
mistook, but an honest cove owns up to it.'* 

They had their drinks, and his lordship, 
taking the inspector aside, asked him if he 
thought that Charlesworth would feel offended* 
if he gave him a couple of sovereigns. 

"Try it/* said the inspector ; and his lord- 

ship did try it when Johnson returned him 
the money which they had taken from him 
at the police station. Charlesworth was not 
in the least offended. 

" It's been a most remarkable night," said 
the Bishop, " but Fin thinking what my wife 
will say," Original from 

"ShelHQ^.UI^v^JJd- of you, sir," said 
the inspector 

" I believe she is already," said the Bishop* 

Fancy Diving 
for Ladi 


(The Champion Lady Diver 
of tke World). 

Miifl Scretie Nwd. the champion Udy dim of the world, who hold* ihc record 
/Ytrtn a Photo, by] for a high dive of 97ft. [liuwhwlf, Stm Pranci&a, 

In this article Mis* Serene Nord, the champion lady diver of the world, who holds many records for diving and 
long- distance swimming, including the world's ladies' record for a high dive of ninety -seven feet, explains many 
effective diving feats for ladies which enthusiastic swimmers should be able to master after a little practice, 
She incidentally points out how a regular course of swimming and diving combined must exercise a most beneficial 
effect not only on the figure but also on the complexion. Miss Nord's life has been almost that of a mermaid. 
She was born in England, but soon after moved to Sweden, where she spent most of her early life. Ever since 
the age of five she has been taking her daily dips, and that it is her boast that she has never suffered a day's 
illness in. her life would seem to suggest there is more than a little truth in her contention that a course of 
swimming and diving is an invaluable asset as a health tonic and restorative, 

HAT an ounce of healthy 
exercise is frequently worth 
more than the contents of all 
the chemists* shops in the 
world as a health restorative 
has long been appreciated by 
all who possess athletic in- 
clinations ; and yet, strangely enough, until 
the last few years medical authorities seemed 
to have entirely overlooked the fact that 
summing, practised with discretion, occupies 
a very high place— almost at the top of the 
tree, in fact— in the long list of recognized 
health cures and tonics. 

At the same time, those who indulge in 
swimming regularly and those who, after a 
great deal of practice, succeed in becoming 
expert swimmers are prone to complain that, 
like walking, taken in long doses the exercise 
is apt to become somewhat boresome. And 
to a certain extent, no doubt, this complaint 
is justifiable, for when a swimmer, especially 
a lady swimmer t succeeds in becoming a 
thorough postmistress of the art, it is, I 

think, only natural that she should sigh for 
— well, what shall I say ? — " other waters to 

Happily, however, there is no need for her 
to look around long for feats which will tax 
her skill in the water to the utmost, for, if 
she will turn her attention to diving, she will . 
find that this pastime will provide her with 
ample scope for her energies. Indeed, I am 
not exaggerating when I say that to become 
a perfect, or maybe a nearly perfect, diver is 
an undertaking which calls for an amount of 
patience and practice which will give even the 
most enthusiastic swimmer plenty to ** think 
of™ for quite a long time to come, for to 
the list of attractive fancy dives there is 
practically no end. Still, although to become 
thoroughly proficient in some of these diving 
feats is a many years' study, there are, never- 
theless, quite a number of fancy dives which 
any capable lady swimmer will be able to per- 
form if s,he will only devote a certain amount 
of time every day, or every other day, as th 
case may be, to practising them. 

1 66 


This period of practice, too, will not be 
wasted, for, from the point of view of pro- 
viding good health, and as an aid to beauty 
of both complexion and figure, swimming 
and diving combined, as exercises, have no 
equal. For example, they extend every muscle 
in the human body; and when I say "extend" 
I mean just that and no more. They pull 
every muscle of the body to its normal limit ; 
not once, but again and again, And, fortu- 
nately, they do not jolt the muscles ; neither 
do they build them up on the limbs, on the 
shoulders, or on the back in huge, unsightly 
bunches. On the contrary, they make for the 
perfect muscle— the long, pliable muscle 
which, while it has great strength and power 
of resistance, is never unsightly. 

In particular, the combination of swimming 
and diving develops the muscles of the back, 
the shoulders, and the neck. Persisted in, it 
will inevitably give that beautifully - turned 
throat which, in a woman, is always so much 
to be admired ; the straight shoulders and 
high chest which go to make 
the perfect figure in woman, 
and the strong back which 
assures correct carriage in 
walking and sitting. 

By this time the hyper- 
critical will doubtless be say- 
ing, u I wonder why, made- 
moiselle, you are telling me 
this? I should like to have 
some convincing proof from 
your own experience that your 
swimming and diving feats 
have really benefited you." 
Happily, I have plenty of such 
proofs. Indeed, I can say 
that, from a health point of 
view, I am " a diving example ,J 
of the truth of my conten- 
tion, for, while I started 
swimming and diving at 
the age of five, and have 
indulged in daily bathing 
all the year round ever 
since, I have never had a 
day's illness in my life. I 
have also found that the 
frequent bathing which I 
have taken has enabled me to dispense with 
those many facial aids of the toilet which 
some women would seem to regard as indis- 
pensable in these somewhat artificial days. 

When I sat down to write this article, at 

the express request of the Editor of The 

trand Magazine, I had intended to plunge 

rect into my subject — to dash into a descrip- 

rr p a ring tor a Straight Uivc — judging the 
Although m#ny diver* regard thii dive ■* 



particularly *a*y, to do it perfectly require i long and 

protracted practice* 

From a Photo, by F. Q. Modioli. 

tion of various attractive fancy dives for 
ladies — at once. But then, being a woman, 
and therefore, I hope, knowing something of 
the various reasoning peculiarities usually to 
be found in my sex, a thought crossed my 
mind in a trice. ** If I do that/' I said to 
myself, !t the only women who will follow my 
advice will be those w T ho are athletically- 
inclined. The rest, w T ho, by the way, w T ould 
benefit most, will probably say, *Oh, yes, 
fancy diving for women is all very well, but 
what goodwill it do me? It will probably 
ruin my complexion, and incidentally help to 
make me as muscular as a strong man. No ; 
no fancy diving for me, thank you/" 

That, therefore, is my reason for having 
wand- -red off the " highways and byw T ays • in 
order to try and prove to every lady reader of 
The Strand Magazine, always providing, 
of course, she is normally healthy, that, while 
swimming may to a certain extent be mono- 
tonous, when it is combined with fancy 
diving it will be found not only an intensely 
interesting pastime, but 
also a real aid to health 
and beauty. A woman's 
features, maybe, she can- 
not make better by natural 
methods, but her com 
plexicm and figure will 
nevertheless always re- 
spond to the right treat- 
ment. And that "right 
treatment" — that best of 
all right treatments, in my 
opinion — lies in the com- 
bination of swimming and 
fancy diving. 

And now to real serious 
business, I have selected 
from my repertoire, so 
to speak, of " fancy diving 
feats " various examples 
which, experience has 
taught me, appeal, as a 
rule, most strongly to the 
fair sex. The first of these 
is the Straight Dive (Fig. i), 
which, by the way, many 
lady swimmers seem to 
regard as the easiest of 
however, is a great mis- 
take. To "shuffle through" the Straight 
Dive, with figure contorted and legs and arms 
"all anyhow/* is, naturally, not a difficult 
thing to do (or anyone who can swim or dive 
at all WW^At^make anything like a perfect 
Straight Dive — for sheer grace I always think 
there is nothing quite like a perfect Straight 

all dives. 




Dive — various hard and fast rules, which I 
have noticed are generally forgotten by the 
"casual diver," have to be carefully and 
faithfully observed. 

The first and most important point a lady 
swimmer should observe when about to make 
a Straight Dive is to see to it that she has 

Dive. In this the diver stands with her back 
to the wfcter, feet together, and with heels 
just protruding over the edge of the board j 
her arms should be stretched out to right and 
left at an angle of about forty-five degrees* 
She then presses down on the spring-board 
and throws herself up in the air as high as 

perfect control over all her muscles, and to possible, at the same time bending the body 

be very careful when 
11 taking oif " from the 
spring-board to bear 
in mind that she 
must keep her feet 
together, and at the 
same time must 
always stretch every 
muscle to the full ex- 
tent, for the cramped, 
"huddled- up- all in- 
a-heap " Straight Dive 
is a horribly ugly 
thing to look at ; it 
entirely and com- 
pletely lacks grace of 
outline, and is alto- 
gether the acme of 
ugliness. When 
jumping off, too, the 
swimmer should do 
so not in a straight 
downward line to- 
wards the water, but 
rather at roughly 
about an angle of 
forty - five degrees, 
while wh e n she 
strikes the water she 
should turn her hands 
upwards immediately 
she is underneath, so 
that, instead of div- 
ing m deep," she 
just dips gracefully 
into the water and 
rises again to the surface almost directly. 

By the way, from a beginner's point of 
view, it is wise to practise from a spring- 
board about four feet high, which, as the 
diver becomes more proficient, may be 
increased to a height of, say, six or seven 
feet from the water. It is, I would point 
out, a fatal mistake when practising fancy 
dives to do so from a spring-board too close 
to the water, as the distance through which 
the diver' has to pass in the air from board to 
water is so short that her style must inevit- 
ably become cramped in consequence. 

Another dive which offers great scope for 
an exhibition of skill and grace is the Back 

Fifl. 2 — The middle taf the Back Dive, showing the bending of the 

body aa Ear back as pomble. 

f Vum a Photo, btf K fr tfwfcoW. 

swimmer is liable to 

backwards and arch- 
ing her back inwards, 
to form that graceful 
curve which is such 
an invaluable asset 
from the point of 
view of appearance on 
a woman's part, In 
hard print this may 
not be easy to under- 
stand, but a glance 
at the accompanying 
illustration (Fig, 2) 
will, I think, at once 
prove the value of 
the point I wish to 

If a lady diver will 
faithfully follow these 
directions, she will 
find that she will drop 
in a straight line to- 
wards the water — not 
at an angle of forty- 
five degrees, as in the 
Straight Dive \ while, 
if she keeps her 
muscles rigid and 
legs and feet touch- 
ing, she will make 
practically no splash 
at all I would here 
point out that, at all 
costs, this dive should 
be practised in deep 
water, otherwise the 
hit the bottom, and, 

maybe, a little too hard at that. The Back 
Dive T of course, is by no means an easy one, 
but those who will bear in mind the direc- 
tions I give should be able to master it in an 
elementary manner quite soon. I use the 
word H elementary n for the simple reason 
that, naturally enough, perfect finish, grace, 
and elegance will only follow on after a good 
deal of practice* This dive, however, is so 
effective from the point of view of the on- 
lookers — in America it has captivated the 
heait^^^4lt(tVg!9||1e (t seaside king"— 
that it is well worth while taking a deal o r 
trouble to thoroughly master it 

1 68 


Fig. 3. — The Hand -Spring D™— lint position, 
nit* on, the apring-board with, legs astride, facing the water, 
fVofri d Phutu. it? F, (^ HmltvU. 

The Hand-Spring Dive is 
one of which I have always 
been particularly fond, for it 
appeals to rite as providing 
an unusually effective spec- 
tacle. The diver sits astride 
on the spring-board, facing 
the water, with legs as 
straight as possible and feet 
painting towards the water 
(Fig. 3), She then raises 
her body on the hands into 
the graceful pose shown in 
Fig, 4, and when in this 
position she pushes 
board away from her, 
thereby obtaining 
sufficient leverage to 
turn almost a com- 
plete somersault, land- 
ing with feet perfectly 
straight in the water 
I do not recommend 
the Hand-Spring Dive 
to beginners, for it is 
necessary to practise 
it time after time to 
perform it in an effec- 
tive manner, but it is 
a feat which every 
really efficient diver 
should make a point 
of trying to be able 
to perform, as it exer- 
cises every muscle in 

Fittn 4. — The tecond poiitiari of the Hand- 
Spring Dive, showing the graceful pose the 
diver a»uine» juit before turning over in a 
complete somertAulr and landing with feet 
perfectly airtight m the water. 
From a Fkott>- bv Ajmkt Studio. ±V™r Yurk r 

the body in a 
manner which 
tends to 
straighten the 
figure and give 
grace and free- 
dom of move- 
ment to the 

And now, 
having des- 
cribed several 
serious fancy- 
diving feats, let 
me come to a 
comical, but 
none the less 
striking, dive, 
T his has 
earned for 
itself the name 
of the "Aus- 
tralian Splash," 
and can 
he per- 
by any 

idy swimmer at the first time of trying. 
The diver takes a long run on the spring- 
board and jumps, in a sitting 
position, as high as possible in 
the air, with knees up to the 
, chin, and with arms clasped 
around the knees, as shown in 
the accompanying illustration 
: (Fig. 5). In this position she 
remains until she strikes the 
water, which, of course* she does 
with a deal of splash — hence the 
dive's sobriquet of 
(t Australian," 

Curiously enough, 
although this diving 
feat can be so easily 
accomplished, it is far 
from well known or 
commonly practised 
among amateur swim- 
mers, and on that 
account it is apt to 
create quite a sensa- 
tion among those who 
use it for the first 
time. It al so pr o vi d es 
the diving beginner 
with an opportunity 
P/EftMTlfacquiring some- 

5pl»h 11 merely a comic a I dive, All hough very effective. 1 he .* *. 

diver lakei a loos run on the spring- board, and jumo* in the tning Ot a SpUHOUS 

lie pusilaon siuiwn in thr Above pi 
fiwn a Phot* by F Q. jjodtotl 


reputation for skill — 



a reputation, however, which 
is not likely to prove dis- 
tasteful among those who do 
not possess sufficient patience 
to thoroughly master really 
difficult diving feats. 

Within the past few months 
the name of Germany has 
cropped up a good deal both 
at home and abroad. It may 
be of interest therefore, if I 
describe the German Dive, 
which, although not quite as 
simple as the alphabet, is, 
nevertheless, to be recom- 
mended to ladies as furnishing 
a particularly attractive aquatic 
feat In this dive the lady 
swimmer stands with her back 
to the water, toes a few inches 

Fit 6.— Fir*t ptMitioq for the German 


From a Fftvto. bn ft G. HmI*oU. 

from the edge of the spring- 
board, and heels obtruding 
just over the end of the board 
(Fig, 6)* When in this posi- 
tion she raises herself on 
her toes and throws herself 
out towards the water in a 
doubled position {Fig. 7), 
Immediately on leaving the 
board she stretches her legs 
out straight, and when near 
the water places her arms 
above her head, so that, pro- 
viding she has thrown her- 
self from the spring- board 
with sufficient force, she will 
reach the water in a perpen- 
dicular position (Figs* 8 and 
9)* As with the back — and, 
indeed) with all diving feats 
in which the 
a c] u a 1 1 c 
artiste goes 

Fig. 6.— The German Dive, thawing the diver ju*t ciiiappearing 
From a Phtfo by] into the water. \r. 0. HwUotL 

down— the German Dive should be practised 
in deep water. 

Still, to a certain extent, I would point out 
that the depth of the water in which a lady 
swimmer should practise depends to a great 

Digitized by tJ 

' ~^.s 

■ - 

Qri g^ffraiW^fcJ 

Hipr&r.iniirfiser: ti 

Fig. 7.— Second poiitian in the German Dive, showing the diver 

in mid air, juit before ftniirhlening out. 

Frpm a PhUo. by tf G. iMnii. 

Fig, 9. — After the German Dive, iuit At, the diver disappear* in 
Note the two ipUshci 

the water, 

and j 

denoting 1 the direr'i legt 
IK G. HodvtlL 



Fin. 10. — Hrit petition in the- Swan 
0m-, witfi e it ended arm*. 

extent on her 
prowess. Thus, 
with due humility, 
I would mention 
that some years 
ago, in Phila- 
delphia, outside 
the Hippodrome, 
I dived from a 
platform sixty- five 
feet high into a 
tank only a little 
over four feet 
deep (Fig, 12). 
Illustrations of 
this feat are here 
given (Figs, to 
and 11)* That 
showing me in 
the second posi- 
tion of the Swan 
Dive — so called 
because when in 
mid-air the diver 
assumes a pose 
very similar to that 
of a swan in full flight — will give readers of 
The Strand Magazine some idea of what 
I had to do. Let me, however, hasten to say 
that I do not mention this in any boastful 
spirit, for I should feel ashamed of myself 
indeed if, having been practising diving for 
over twelve years, I had not by this time 
thoroughly mastered the art But, from a 
beginner's point of view, I would conscien- 
tiously suggest that it is at all times a fault 
on the right side to dive into water which 
may err on the side of deepness rather than 
into only a few feet of water — for it is only 
by practice that one learns to "put on the 
brake," so to speak, when finding oneself 

I have noticed from time to time that, 
especially at the seaside, at public bathing 
entertainments, and even in bathing parties, 
the comical dive is invariably almost as 
popular as the really difficult and ''advanced" 
dives- Before bringing this article to a close, 
therefore, I should like to describe one more 
" humorous n aquatic feat This has earned 
for itself the name of the Standing-Sitting 
Dive. To perform it the swimmtr stands on 
the spring-board, with figure erect, facing the 
water, toes just protruding over the edge of 
the board, and with legs together; in every 
perfect dive the legs should always be kept 
together — this is a hard, fast, and permanent 
njle. She then jumps straight up in the air, 
inding in a silting position on the spring- 

board with such force that she is thrown up 
into the air again, when, by bending the body 
forward and straightening out the legs in 
a position similar to that practised in the 
Straight Dive, she will plunge into the water 
at an angle of about forty- five degrees. This 
dive, by the way, can be practised on a 
spring-board in a gymnasium, so that the 
would be diver can learn exactly what impetus 
the board will give her to enable her on the 
rebound to curve in the air and reach the 
water at the required angle of forty-five 

By the way, an effective ** trick * on com- 
ing up to the surface of the water again after 
a dive is what is popularly known as the 
* l Whirlpool." To give a sufficiently striking 
finish to this little feat the swimmer should 
pretend to be making direct for the landing- 
stage, when suddenly, to the surprise of the 
spectators, she is seen to stop and go round 
and round. Superficially, there would seem 
to be no reason for this, for she is surrounded 
by foam from the 
splashing water, and 
therefore those on 
dry land cannot 
see exactly what she 

Fig. It — Second potitioxi in the Swan Dive, juct after leaving 
**Vi» a FMifa 6yJ the board. JJP. «?. BodmH* 



is doing. As a matter of fact, however, 
she has suddenly drawn her whole body 
into a sitting position with her knees up to 
her chin, while with the right hand just 
below the water in half circles and towards 
the body she moves it in rapid fashion, and 
with rapid and narrow* strokes, while with her 
left arm and with wider strokes from left to 
right she describes at the same time a number 
of wide sweeps, the " advance " and "retreat " 
actions of which bring her to a standstill and 
propel her round and round in a manner 
which, to those who do not understand how 
it is done, must inevitably seem to border on 
the mysterious. 

In conclusion, 
let me offer lady 
swimmers one or 
two golden rules 
which they should 
never fail to 
observe before 
starting on a series 
of fancy dives- In 
the first place, the 
lungs should be 
well cleared 
before diving b> 
giving two or 
three hard 
coughs, or by 
forcing all the 
breath out of 
them; this 
empties them of 
all impure air 
which may be in 
the cells. They 
should then take 
two or three long 
breaths, which 
will expand them 
wider than they 
were before, and 
they will find that 
they can by this 
means remain 
much longer 
under water with- 
out breath i ng 
than in the ordi- 
nary way. 

No lady swim- 
mer should re- 
main over - long 
in the water; it 
is a fatal mis- 
take to stay in 
until "chilled 

Fiff. 12- —An eaira ordinary snapihot of Miu Serene 
<Je]phit oulflide the Hippodrome, Front a. platfn 

who it here ihowq doing a Jjwan Dive just at *he leaves iht pLillufiM, 
into a tank below only a litlte over Ah. deep, 

through-" When, therefore, the feeling of 
chill arises the swimmer would do well 
to go to her bathroom, take a shower if 
she feels equal to it, and then rub, and 
rub, and rub with the coarsest towels at her 
command. The cold water will have already 
brought the blood to the surface ; the rubbing 
will help the blood to develop and course 
through the veins of the body more freely. 

And, last but not least, the lady diver 
should never despair of attaining per- 
fection. In graceful diving, as in the 
acquirement of perfection in every outdoor 
or indoor pastime, it is necessary to exer- 
cise a certain 
amount of 
patience, and, in 
my own case, I 
have practised 
some of the dives 
which I have des- 
cribed hundreds 
upon hundreds of 
times, always 
hoping by this 
means to attain 
additional grace, 
I would, there- 
fore, say: "Persist 
i n your s w i m m i ng, 
and very quickly 
you will find that 
you are beginning 
to improve. 
You will find it 
an excellent aid to 
skill to practise 
some of the exer- 
cises incidental to 
swimming in your 
own honu- t fur, by 
lying prone upon 
the bed, or even 
on the floor, and 
gding through, for 
a few minutes, 
the strokes of 
swimming with 
legs and arms, 
you will find very 
quickly that the 
exercise is giving 
a vim and re- 
silience to the 
muscular system, 
the sensation of 
which is truly 

Nsii tjkin in PLiJL.- 




Illustrated ly W. H. Margetaon, R.L 



HIS is the story as Mr. 
Ricardo wrote it out from 
the statement of Celia herself 
and the confession of Adfele 
Rossignol. Obscurities which 
had puzzled him were made 
clear. But he was still unaware 
how Hanaud had worked out the solution. 

" You promised me that you would explain," 
he said, when they were both together again 
at Aix. The two men had just finished 
luncheon at the Cercle and were sitting over 
their coffee. Hanaud lighted a cigar. 

" There were difficulties, of course," he 
said. " The crime was so carefully planned. 
The little details, such as the footprints, the 
absence of any mud from the girl's shoes in 
the carriage of the motor-car, the dinner at 
Annecy, the purchase of the cord, the want 
of any sign of a struggle in the little salon, 
were all carefully thought out. Had not one 
little accident happened, and one little mis- 
take been made in consequence, I doubt if 
we should have laid our hands upon one of 
the gang. That mistake was, as you no doubt 

are fully aware " 

"The failure of Wethermill to discover 
Mme. Dauvray's jewels," said Ricardo at 

" No, my friend," answered Hanaud. 
"That made them keep Mile. Celie alive. 
It enabled us to save her when we had dis- 
covered the whereabouts of the gang. It did 
not help us very much to lay our hands upon 
them. No ; the little accident which happened 
was the entrance of our friend Perrichet into 
the garden while the murderers were still in 
the room. Imagine that scene, Mr. Ricardo. 
The rage of the murderers at their inability 
to discover the plunder for which they had 
risked their necks, the old woman crumpled 
up on the floor against the wall, the girl writ- 
ing laboriously with fettered arms ' I do not 
know ■ under threats of torture, and then in 
the stillness of the night the clear, tiny click 
of the gate and the measured, relentless 
footsteps. No wonder they were terrified in 
that dark room. What would be their one 

Copyright, 1910, by 

thought ? Why, to get away — to come back 
perhaps later, when Mile. C£lie should have 
told them what, by the way,, she did not know, 
but in any case to get away now. So they 
made their little mistake, and in their hurry 
they left the light burning in the room of 
H&fcne Vauquier, and the murder was dis- 
covered seven hours too soon for them." 

"Seven hours!" said Mr. Ricardo. 

" Yes. The household did not rise early. 
It was not until seven that the charwoman 
came. It was she who was meant to discover 
the crime. By that time the motor-car would 
have been back three hours ago in its garage. 
Servettaz, the chauffeur, would have returned 
from ChamWry in the morning, he would have 
cleaned the car, he would have noticed that 
there was very little petrol in the tank, as 
there had been when he left it on the day 
before. He would not have noticed that 
some of his many tins which had been full 
yesterday were empty to-day. We should 
not have discovered that about four in the 
morning it was close to the Villa Rose and 
that it had travelled, between midnight and 
five in the morning, a hundred and fifty kilo- 

" But you had already guessed c Geneva,* " 
said Ricardo. "At luncheon, before the 
news came that the car was found, you had 
guessed it." 

" It was a shot," said Hanaud. " I wished 
to see how Wethermill would take it He 
was wonderful." 

" He sprang up." 

" He betrayed nothing but surprise. You 
showed no less surprise than he did, my 
good friend. What I was looking for was 
one glance of fear. I did not get it." 

"Yet you suspected him — even then you 
spoke of brains and audacity. You told him 
enough to hinder him from communicating 
with the red-haired woman in Geneva. You 
isolated him. Yes, you suspected him." 

" Let us take the case from the beginning. 
When you first came to me, as I told you, 
the Commissaire had already been with me. 
There was an interesting piece of evidence 
already within his possession. Adolphe 
Ruel— who saw Wethermill and Vauquier 

A. E. W. Mason. 



together close by the Casino and overheard 
that cry of WethermiU's, ' It is true ; I must 
have money ! f — had already been with his 
story to the Commissaire. I knew it when 
Harry Wethermill came into the room to ask 
me to take up the case. That was a bold 
stroke, my friend. The chances were a 
hundred to one that I should not interrupt 
my holiday to take up a case because of your 
little dinner-party in London. Indeed, I 
should not have interrupted it had I not 
known Adolphe- Ruel'-s story. As it was 
I could not resist. WethermiU's very audacity 
charmed me. Oh, yes, I felt that I must pit 
myself against him. So few criminals have 
spirit, M. Ricardo. It is deplorable how few. 
But Wethermill ! See in what a fine position 
he would have been if only I had refused. 
He himself had been the first to call upon 
the first detective in France. And his argu- 
ment ! He loved Mile. Celie. Therefore 
she must be innocent ! How he stuck to it ! 
People would have said, ' Love is blind/ and 
all the more they would have suspected Mile. 
Celie. Yes, but they love the blind lover. 
Therefore all the more would it hatfe been 
impossible for them to believe Harry Wether- 
mill had any share in that grim crime." 

Mr. Ricardo drew his chair closer in to the 

"I will confess to you," he said, "that I 
thought Mile. Celie was an accomplice." 

" It is not surprising," said Hanaud. "Some- 
one within the house was an accomplice — we 
start with that fact. The house had not been 
broken into. There was Mile. Celie's record 
as Helene Vauquier gave it to us, and a 
record obviously true. There was the fact 
that she had got rid of Servettaz. There was 
the maid upstairs very ill from the chloroform. 
What more likely than that Mile. Celie had 
arranged a seance, and then when the lights 
were out had admitted the murderer through 
that convenient glass door ? " 

u There were, besides, the definite imprints 
af her shoes," said Mr. Ricardo. 

" Yes, but that is precisely where I began 
to feel sure that she was innocent," replied 
Hanaud, dryly. " All the other footmarks 
had been so carefully scored and ploughed 
up that nothing could be made of them. 
Yet those little ones remained so definite, so 
easily identified, and I began to wonder why 
these, too, had not been cut up and stamped 
over. The murderers had taken, you see, 
an excess of precaution to throw the pre- 
sumption of guilt upon Mile. Celie rather 
than upon Vauquier. However, there the foot- 
steps were. Mile. Celie had sprung from 

the room as I described to Wethermill. But 
I was puzzled. Then in the room I found 
the torn- up sheet of notepaper with the 
words, 'Je ne sais pas/ in mademoiselle's 
handwriting. The words might have been 
spii it-writing — they might have meant any- 
thing — except what you, my dear friend, 
suggested. I put them away in my mind. 
But in the room the settee puzzled me. And 
again I was troubled — greatly troubled." 

"Yes, I saw that." 

" And not you alone," said Hanaud, with a 
smile. " Do you remember that loud cry he 
gave when we returned to the room and once 
more I stood before the settee ? Oh, he 
turned it off very well. I had said that our 
criminals in France were not very gentle with 
their victims, and he pretended that it was 
his fear of what Mile. Celie might be suffering 
which had torn that cry from his heart. But 
it was not so. He was afraid — deadly afraid 
— not for Mile. Celie, but for himself. He 
was afraid that I had understood what those 
cushions had to tell me." 

" What did they tell you ? " asked Ricardo. 

" You know now," said Hanaud. " There 
were two cushions, both indented, and in- 
dented in different ways. The one at the 
head was irregularly indented — something 
shaped had pressed upon it. It might have 
been a face — it might not ; and there was a 
little brown stain which was fresh and which 
was blood. The second cushion had two 
separate impressions, and between them the 
cushion was forced up in a thin ridge ; and 
these impressions were more definite. I 
measured the distance between the two 
cushions and I found this : that supposing — 
and it was a large supposition — the cushions 
had not been moved since those impressions 
were made, a girl of Mile. Celie's height lying 
stretched out upon the sofa would have her 
face pressing down upon the one cushion and 
her feet and insteps upon the other. Now, 
the impressions upon the second cushion 
and the thin ridge between them were just 
the impressions which might have been 
made by a pair of shoes held close together. 
But that would not be a natural attitude 
for anyone, and the mark upon the head 
cushion was very deep. Supposing that my 
conjectures were true, then a woman would 
only lie like that because she was helpless, 
because she had been flung there, because 
she could not lift herself, because, in a word, 
her hands were tied behind her back and her 
feet fa$^^j,J(|)gfle^|i?.":|jW r ell, then, follow 
this train of reasoning, my friend ! Suppose 
my conjectures —and we had nothing but 



conjectures to build upon — were true, the 
woman flung upon the sofa could not be 
Helene Vauquien For she would have said 
so ; she could have had no reason for con- 
cealment But it must be Mile, Celie* There 
was the slit in the one cushion and the stain 
on the other which, of 
course* I had not accounted 
for. There was still, too, 
the puzzle of the footsteps 
outside the glass doors. If 

upon her. There would be proof that she 
ran hurriedly from the room and sprang into 
a motor-car of her own free will. But, again, 
if that theory were true, then H<*lfcne Vauquier 
was the accomplice and not Mile, Celie." 
" I follow that" 


Mile, Celie had been bound upon the sofa, 
how came she to run with her limbs free 
from the house? There was a question — a 
question not easy to answer," 

" Yes," said Mr. Ricardo. 

"Yes; but there was also another question. 
Suppose that Mile, Celie was, after all, the 
victim, not the accomplice j suppose she had 
been flung tied upon the sofa ; suppose 
that somehow the imprint of her shoes 
upon the ground had been made, and that 
she had afterwards been carried away, so that 
the maid might be cleared of all complicity 
—in that case it became intelligible why the 
'ith er footprints were scored out and hers 

t. The presumption of guilt would fall 

"Then I found an 
interesting piece of 
evidence with regard 
to the strange woman 
who came — I picked 
up a long red hair— a 
very important piece of evidence about which 
I thought it best to say nothing at all. It 
was not Mile, Celie's hair, which is fair ; nor 
Vauquier's, which is black ; nor Mme. 
Dauvray's, which is dyed brown. It was, 
therefore, the visitor's. Well, we went up- 
stairs to Mile. Celie's room." 

" Yes/' said Mr, Ricardo, eagerly. " We 
are coming to the pot of cream." 

" In that room we learnt that Helena 
Vauquier, at her own request, had already 
paid it a visit. It is true the Commissajre 
said that he hud kept his eye on her the 
whole tHfittN.«UNIW&B&ITttw less from the 
window he saw me coming down the road, 
and that he could not have done, as I made 



sure, unless he had turned his back upon 
Vauquier and leaned out of the window. 
Now at the time I had an open mind about 
Vauquier. On the whole I was inclined to 
think she had no share in the affair. But 
either she or Mile. Celie had, and perhaps 
both. But one of them — yes. That was 
sure. Therefore I asked what drawers she 
touched after the Commissaire had leaned 
out of the window. For if she had any 
motive in wishing to visit the room she 
would have satisfied it when the Com- 
missaire's back was turned. He pointed 
to a drawer, and I took out a dress and 
shook it, thinking that she may have wished 
to hide something. But nothing fell out. 
On the other hand, however, I saw some 
quite fresh grease-marks, made by fingers, 
and the marks were wet. I began to ask 
myself how it was that Helene Vauquier, who 
had just been helped to dress by the nurse, 
had grease upon her fingers. Then I looked 
at a drawer which she had examined first of 
all. There were no grease-marks on the 
clothes she had turned over before the Com- 
missaire leaned out of the window. There- 
fore it followed that during the few seconds 
when he was watching me she had touched 
grease. I looked about the room, and there 
on the dressing-table close by the chest of 
drawers was a pot of cold cream. That was 
the grease Helene Vauquier had touched. 
And why? If not to hide some small thing 
in it which, firstly, she dared not keep in her 
own room ; which, secondly, she wished to 
hide in the room of Mile. Celie ; and which, 
thirdly, she had not had an opportunity to 
hide before. Now bear those three con- 
ditions in mind, and tell me what the small 
thing was." 

Mr. Ricardo nodded his head. 

" I know now," he said. " You told me. 
The eardrops of Mile. Celie. But I should 
not have guessed it at the time." 

"Nor could I — at the time," said Hanaud. 
"I kept my open mind about Helene 
Vauquier ; but I locked the door and took 
the key. Then we went and heard Vauquier's 
story. The story was clever, because so 
much of it was obviously indisputably true. 
The account of the seances, of Mme. 
Dauvray's superstitions, her desire for an 
interview with Mme. de Montespan — such 
details are not invented. It was interesting, 
too, to know that there had been a seance 
planned for that night ! The method of the 
murder began to be clear. So far she spoke 
the truth. But then she lied. Yes, she lied, 
and it was a bad lie, my friend. She told us 

that the strange woman, Adfele, had black 
hair. Now I carried in my pocket-book 
proof that that woman's hair was red. Why 
did she lie, except to make impossible the 
identification of that strange visitor? That 
was the first false step taken by Helene 

" Now let us take the second. I thought 
nothing of her rancour against Mile. Celie. 
To me it was all very natural. She— the 
hard peasant woman, no longer young, who 
had been for years the confidential servant 
of Mme. Dauvray, and no doubt had taken 
her levy from the impostors who preyed upon 
the credulous mistress — certainly she would 
hate this young and pretty outcast whom she 
has to wait upon, whose hair she has to 
dress. Vauquier — she would hate her. But 
if by any chance she were in the plot — and 
the lie seemed to show she was — then the 
seances showed me new possibilities. For 
Helene used to help Mile. Celie. Suppose 
that the stance had taken place, that this 
sceptical visitor with the red hair professed 
herself dissatisfied with Vauquier's method 
of testing the medium, had suggested another 
way, Mile. Celie could not object, and there 
she would be neatly and securely packed up 
beyond the power of offering any resistance 
before she could have a suspicion that 
things were wrong. It would be an easy 
little comedy to play. And if that were true 
— why, there were my sofa cushions partly 

" Yes, I see ! " cried Ricardo, with 
enthusiasm. u You are wonderful." 

Hanaud was not displeased with his com- 
panion's enthusiasm. 

" But wait a moment. We have only con- 
jectures so far, and one fact that Helene 
Vauquier lied about the colour of the strange 
woman's hair. Now we get another fact. 
Mile. Celie was wearing buckles on her shoes. 
And there is my slit in the sofa cushions. 
For when she is flung on to the sofa, what 
will she do ? She will kick. Of course it is 
conjecture. I do not as yet hold pigheadedly 
to it. I am not yet sure that Mile, 
Celie is innocent. I am willing at any 
moment to admit that facts contradict my 
theory. But, on the contrary, each fact that 
I discover helps it to take shape. 

u Now I come to Helene Vauquier's 
second mistake. On the evening when you 
saw Mile. Celie in the garden behind the 
baccarat room?; you noticed that she wore 
no jewellery excq^^f^ilrYof diamond ear- 
drops. In the photograph which Wethermill 
showed me, again she was wearing them, 



Is it not, therefore, probable that she 
usually wore them ? When I examined 
her room I found the case for those ear- 
rings — the case was empty. It was natural, 
then, to infer that she was wearing them 
when she came down to the stance." 


"Well, I read a description — a carefully- 
written description — of the missing girl, made 
by H£lene Vauquier after an examination of 
the girl's wardrobe. There is no mention of 
the earrings. So I asked her — c Was she not 
wearing them ? ' Helene Vauquier was taken 
by surprise. How should I know anything 
of Mile. C^lie's earrings? She hesitated. 
She did not quite know what answer to 
make. Now why? Since she herself 
dressed Mile. Celie, and remembers so 
very well all she wore, why does she hesi- 
tate? Well, there is a reason. She does 
not know how much I know about those 
diamond eardrops, or whether we have not 
found them. Yet without knowing she 
cannot answer. So now we come back to 
our pot of cold cream." 

" Yes ! " cried Mr. Ricardo. " They were 
there. But how ? " 

" Wait a bit," said Hanaud. " Let us see 
how it works out. Remember the conditions. 
Vauquier has some small thing which she 
must hide, and which she wishes to hide in 
Mile. C&ie's room. For she admitted that 
it was her suggestion that she should look 
through mademoiselle's wardrobe. For what 
reason does she choose the girl's room, except 
that if the thing were discovered that would 
be the natural place for it ? It is, then, some- 
thing belonging to Mile, Celie. There was a 
second condition we laid down. It was some- 
thing Vauquier had not been able to hide 
before. It came, then, into her possession last 
night. Why could she not hide it last night ? 
Because she was not alone. There were the 
man and the woman, her accomplices. It was 
something, then, which she was concerned 
in hiding from them. It is not rash to 
guess then that it was some piece of 
the plunder of which the other two would 
have claimed their share — and a piece of 
plunder belonging to Mile. G*lie. Well, she 
has nothing but the diamond eardrops. 
Suppose Vauquier is left alone to guard 
Mile. Celie while the other two ransack 
Mme. Dauvray's room. She sees her chance. 
The girl cannot stir hand or foot to save 
herself. Vauquier tears the eardrops in a 
hurry from her ears— and there I have my 
drop of blood just where I should expect 
t to be. But now follow this 1 Vauquier 

hides the earrings in her pocket. She goes 
to bed in order to be chloroformed. She 
knows that it is very possible that her room 
will be searched before she regains con- 
sciousness, or before she is well enough to 
move. There is only one place to hide 
them in, only one place where they will be 
safe. In bed with her. But in the morn- 
ing she must get rid of them, and a nurse 
is with her. Hence the excuse to go to 
Mile. C^lie's room. If the eardrops are 
found in the pot of cold cream, it would 
only be. thought that Mile. Celie had herself 
hidden them there for safety. Again it is 
conjecture, and I wish to make sure. So I 
tell Vauquier she can go away, and I leave 
her unwatched. I have her driven to the 
depot instead of to her friends, and searched. 
Upon her is found the pot of cream, and in 
the cream Mile. CtHie's eardrops. She has 
slipped into Mile. Celie's room, as, if my 
theory was correct, she would be sure to do, 
and put the pot of cream into her pocket. 
So I am now fairly sure that she is concerned 
in the murder. 

" We then went to Mme. Dauvray's room 
and discovered her brilliants and her orna- 
ments. At once the meaning of that agitated 
piece of handwriting of Mile. Celie's becomes 
clear. She is asked where the jewels are 
hidden. She cannot answer, for her mouth, 
of course, is stopped. She has to write. 
Thus my conjectures get more and more 
support. And, mind this, one of the two 
women is guilty — Celie or Vauquier. My 
discoveries all fit in with the theory of Celie's 
innocence. But there remain the footprints, 
for which I found no explanation. 

"You will remember I made you all 
promise silence as to the finding of Mme, 
Dauvray's jewellery. For I thought, if they 
have taken the girl away so that suspicion 
may fall on her and not on Vauquier, they 
mean to dispose of her. But they may keep 
her so long as they have a chance of finding 
out from her Mme. Dauvray's hiding-place. 
It was a small chance, but our only one. 
The moment the discovery of the jewellery 
was published the girl's fate was sealed, were 
my theory true. 

" Then came our advertisement and Mme. 
Gobin's written testimony. Again I was 
puzzled. ' She ran lightly and quickly across 
the pavement into the house, as though she 
were afraid to be seen.' Those were the 
words, and the woman was obviously honest. 

What to^A^JIWO^W then? . The girl 
was free to run, free to stoop and pick up the 
train of her gown in her gloved hand, free 



to shout for help in the open street if she 
wanted help. No ; that I could not explain 
until that afternoon, when 1 saw Mile, Celt's 

house. Well, there you have the explanation* 
I had only my theory to work upon even 
after Mme. Gobin's evidence. But as it 


terror-stricken eyes fixed upon that flask, and 
poured a Httle out and burnt a hole in the 
sack. Then I understood well enough. The 
fear of vitriol ! " Hanaud gave an uneasy 
shudder, "And it is enough to make anyone 
afraid ! That I can tell you. No wonder she 
lay still as a mouse upon the sofa in the bed* 
room. No wonder she ran quickly into the 

happened it was the right one. Meanwhile, 
of course, I made my inquiries into Wether- 
miirs circumstance My good friends in 
England helped me. They were precarious. 
He owed money fin Aix, money at his hotel. 
We knew|fffftqf^ that the man 

we were searching for had returned to Aix, 
Things began to look black for WethermilL 

i 7 S 


Then you gave me a little piece of 

u 1 1 * exclaimed Ricardo, with a start 
" Yes, You told me that you walked up 
to the hotel with Harry Wethermill on the 
night of the murder and separated just 
before ten. A glance into his rooms which 
I had — you will remember that when we had 
discovered the motor-car I suggested that we 
should go to Harry Wether mill's rooms and 
talk it over — that glance enabled me to see 
that he could very easily have got out of his 
room on to the veranda below and escaped 
from the hotel by the garden quite unseen. 
In a quarter of an hour or twenty minutes 
he could have reached the Villa Rose. He 
could have been in the salon before half-past 
ten, and that is just the hour which suited 
me perfectly* And> as he got out unnoticed, 
so he could return. So he did return ! My 
friend, there are some interesting marks 
upon the window-sill of Wethermill's room 
and upon the 
pillar just be- 
neath it. Take a 
look, M. Ricardo, 
when you return 
to your hotel. Oh, 
I had already evi- 
dence. But then 
came an over- 
whelming thing — 
the murder of 
know now how he 
did it He walked 
beside the cab, put 
his head in at the 
window, asked, 
* Have you come 
in answer to the 
advertisement? ' 
and stabbed her 
straight to the 
heart through her 
dress with a long, 
thin knife, The 
dress would save 
him from being 
stained with her 
blood* He was in 
your room that 
morning, search- 
ing for a telegram 
in answer to your 
advertisement, He 
received one from 

Hippolyte Tace at a little after one. He 
was like a fox in a cage, snapping at every- 
one, twisting vainly this way and that way, 
risking everything and everyone to save his 
precious neck. Marthe Gobin was in the 
way. She is killed. Mile. Celie is a danger. 
So Mile, Celie must be suppressed. And off 
goes a telegram to the Geneva paper, handed 
in by a waiter from the caf£ at the station of 
Chambery before five o'clock, Wethermill 
went to Chambery that afternoon when we 
went to Geneva; and, of course, he was 

Hanaud leaned back in his chair. 
"And now, my friend," said he, "let us 
talk of someone else* What of Mile. 
Celie ? * 

Ricardo drew a letter from his pocket. 

" I have a sister in London, a widow/* he 

said. "She is kind. I, too, have been 

thinking of what will become of Mile. Celie, 

I wrote to my sister,*and here is her reply. 

Mile, Celie will be 
very welcome." 

stretched out his 
hand and shook 
Ricardo's warmly, 
"She will not, 
I think, be for very 
longa burden. She 
is young. She will 
recover from this 
shock. She is very 
pretty j very gentle. 
If— if no one 
comes forward 
whom she loves 
and who loves her 
— I — yes, I mysel f, 
who «u her papa 
for one night, will 
be her husband 
for ever." 

He laughed in- 
ordinately at his 
own joke. It was 
a habit of M. 
Hanaud J s. Then 
he said, gravely: — 
"But I am glad, 
M. Ricardo, for 
Mile. Celie's sake 
that I came to 
your amusing 
dinner - party in 

« iiAKAunnffrwjlmD out his HANir'HWrftiBJt!^ dinner - p 


The End. 

The Fascination of Wave-Watching 


Author of "Peeps into Natures Ways" etc. Illustrated from Photographs by the Author. 


O those who only occasionally 
visit the sea-shore, watching 
the waves invariably proves 
a source of entertainment 
They are enchanted though 
no mighty billows attract 
infinite variety of ordinary 
occur with normal winds is 

waves that 
marvellously enjoyable as they roll towards 
the shore. Indeed, it is by means of the 
latter that we can best understand why the 
surface of the sea is ever changing its form. 

Properly to appreciate what is happening 
we have to realize that there is an endless 
conflict going on between two seas— a sea of 
air and a sea of water. The bottom of the 
immense sea of air rests on the surface of 
the water, and the latter, ' of course, resists 
any change in its natural level. The air 
surface, in contact with the water, likewise 
tends to keep its pressure equal, but is con- 
tinually disturbed by currents of more or less 
dense air moving above it. Direct heat from 
the sun causes the air in particular parts to 
become heated and, consequently, to expand; 
while in those parts where the air is protected 
from the heat of the sun it cools and contracts, 
this variation in density setting up currents in 
the air ; or, in other words, causing a wind to 

It is obvious that the slightest disturbance 
of the sufface of thejwater necessarily affects 
the pressure on the air above it, and vice versa. 
Indeed, invisible waves occur in the air 
simultaneously with those of the water. A 
stone thrown into a pond well illustrates this 
point The moment the stone enters the 
water a hole is formed, into which the air 
immediately rushes. The water, m however, 
forcibly resists this intrusion of the air, and 
promptly closes up the hole. Not only is the 
hole filled up again, but the water rushes 
back with so much energy that it heaps up 
the hollow to overflowing, and the water 
again falls back in a less degree. In this 
way a series of constantly-decreasing vibra- 
tions is set up and a wave-motion is propa- 
gated, visible on the surface of the pond as 
concentric, expanding circles. 

It should be observed that the ripples or 
waves that run to the banks of the pond are 
not, as they appear to be, ridges of water 
forced forward by the fall of the stone. The 
water that was disturbed was, as previously 
explained, immediately required to fill up the 
hole made by the falling stone. What has 
passed through the water was a form of 
energy, expended by the water in its efforts 
to resist being made unlevel by the disturb- 
ing stone. On, a windy day, when looking at 
a standing field of ripe wheat, a rift or air- 
wave will sometimes be seen to quickly cross 
the whole field, yet it does not convey any 
of the heads of corn before it. The wave 
appearance is produced by the bending down 
and springing up in turn of each row of corn. 

Now, a water-wave exhibits a similar kind 
of energy, but of a more complex character, 
and in its progress over the surface it is con- 
tinually imparting wave-energy to the water- 
particles immediately in front of it, and in 
this way the wave is destined to convey its 
energy forward until it meets with some 
stronger force that is able to disperse it, or is 
exhausted with friction of the water-particles. 

On watching a floating object that meets 
a wave it will be observed that the wave 
passes by it, simply causing it to bob up and 
down. The object is pushed forward and 
then pulled back again in a circular move- 
ment, so that the water in which it floats 
remains in practically the same place as 
before the wave passed, although it has 
taken its part in conveying the energy of 
the wave. 

From what has been stated it will be 
obvious that a sudden atmospheric disturb- 
ance that produces strong winds at any given 
spot at sea would set up wave -oscillations, 
and that these would go on accumulating 
while the storm lasted, travelling away from 
the centre of the disturbance in all directions. 
In this way a heavy sea may occur at places 
where little or no wind is blowing, the waves 
reaching the shore considerably in advance 
of the distant storm-centre, and often giving 
warning of its approach. 

One might anticipate that when waves 

i So 




produced by different causes 
meet they would both become 
disturbed, or that they would 
unite. Such, however, is not 
the case, although it is pos- 
sible under certain conditions 
Tor two waves to nullify each 
other. That occurrence, 
though, in sea -waves, is rare, 
and usually, after the waves 
have encountered, each one is 
seen to be pursuing its indi- 
vidual course as if no inter- 
ruption had talc en place, 

Those who watch the waves 
may discover many interesting 
points regarding the various 
forms that occur from time to 
time. Any spot on the coast 
will serve for the purpose of 
their study, although it should 
be observed that the position 
selected will largely influence 
the form of the waves — a 
feature that the accompanying 
illustrations will make clear. 

In Fig. i is shown a 
l£ cKoppy" sea, with waves 
rolling in from the Atlantic 
towards the shore. In the 
distant sea the waves seem 
insignificant, but as they near 
the shore they appear to 
become suddenly larger and 
more powerful. What really 
happens is that while in the 
open and deep water the wave 
can travel unimpeded ; on 







nearing the land its progress is hindered* The 
wave finds itself driven into a bay or some 
narrow gulf that breaks its line and conse- 
quently concentrates its energy. In this way 
it increases in size until it breaks. Fig + i 
shows a wave approaching in this manner 
and being met by a returning wave that has 
already broken on the shore* The result of 
this is shown in Fig. 2. 

larger and stronger wave has approached, 
and the energy of this wave seems to have 
been largely concentrated on the central 
rock, the result of which is shown in Fig. 3, 
The photograph clearly depicts that part of 
the water which has struck the rock thrown 
upwards into the air and just in the act of 
curling over and breaking into spray. 

In Fig, 4 this simple curling wave is shown 


The returning rush of water, combined 
with that of the broken incoming wave, has 
raised the surface -level so that it almost 
covers the projecting pieces of rock, and the 
remaining energy of the wave has produced a 
shower of spray by impact with part of the rock. 
Before the volume of water produced by the 
two broken waves has again subsided another 

more in detail, and it well illustrates why 
huge waves can do so much damage to coast 
structures. Although the photograph only 
really shows a shower of spray, yet, by the 
form whicb'f'ifHe^t&Cy*' 1 has assumed, it is 
easy tol^fettA^IN)6 , 'E*!aT" , propelled with an 
immense force. If, then, we take into con- 
sideration the fact that a cubic yard of water 




weighs about three-quarters of a ton, and 

that a moderate storm -wave may occupy a 

mass of water weighing many hundreds of 

tons and possess the energy of an express 

train t it is not surprising that such masses 

of water, hurled with so much force against 

sea-walls, piers, etc, should cause damage. 
In Fig. 5 is shown a wave some part of 

which, instead of finishing its course by 

meeting a rock, as in the previous case, 

rushes between the rocks into a more open 

space. At the side where the water 

comes in contact with the rock it is seen 

breaking into spray, but near the centre the 

volume of water pours through with a rush, 

though its progress is hindered by water 

returning from the breaking of a previous calm sea, waves are continually travelling, 

although they are 
scarcely noticeable 
until they reach the 
shore. Fig. 8 supplies 
an excellent illustra- 
tion. A stretch of calm 
sea is shown with 
waves gently breaking 
on the sloping shore. 
The photograph shown 
in Fig, 9 tells a very 
different story. In the 
latter case powerful 
waves are regularly 
arriving and breaking 
with equal vigour ; in- 
Fit;. S.— the waves that &oLL to shore from a calm siA deed, it is the "ground- 

wave. The result 
of that hindrance, 
together with the 
resistance of the 
shallow water, is 
shown in Fig. 6, 
where the wave is 
seen in the act of 
breaking and its 
energy being 
S[>ent in a mass 
of hissing foam. 
It will be seen, 
therefore, that the 
energy of motion 
contained in a 
wave that strikes 
a rock terminates 
in the uplifting of 
the water and a 
show T er of spray, 
the volume of 
water that i s raised 
of course depend- 
ing on the size 
and pressure of the wave ; while the energy 
of a wave that finishes its course on a flat 
or sloping shore is spent in friction with the 
sand or shingle. 

In a similar manner waves that have 
travelled over deep water break when the 
depth of water beneath them diminishes. 
In Fig. 7 some waves (which in the open 
sea above the deep water are scarcely recog- 
nizable) are shown breaking as they re;ich 
shallow water near the rocks. In this way 
mariners, by the presence of such t! breakers," 
are warned that some sandbank or shallow 
is being approached, even when no rocks are 

Even through what we may term a perfectly 


swell " that tells 
of the far - off 
storm from 
which they have 

In both the 
last - mentioned 
cases the break- 
ing of the waves 
arises from the 
same cause. As 
they reach the 
shore they get 
steeper on the 
land side, owing 
to the fact that 
the particles of 
water influenced 
by the wave are, 
like floating 
objects that a 
wave overtakes, 
agitated by a 
circular movement, and, while in the deep 
water this movement is unimpeded, in shallower 
water friction of the particles occurs in the 
lower part of the wave. This friction causes the 
upper part of the wave to travel more rapidly 
than the lower, until the water rises and 
topples over. Thus the curling of the wave 
comes about, and, as previously explained* 
the breaking of the wave on a rock is but an 
exaggeration of the same features. 

A sea without waves is an impossible thing. 
In Fig. 10 is shown what one might con- 
ventionally term a "calm ** sea, but its surface 
is seen to be covered with little wavelets. 
Even a passing steamboat will set up a wave- 
motion similar to that produced by wind, and 
these oscillations will last for long periods of 
time. Dr, Forel, of Lausanne, in the course 
of some interesting' 
experiments on Lake 
Geneva, showed that a 
lake - steamer created 
wave - vi brat i ons that 
would persist for more 
than two hours after the 
movement of the boat 
had ceased — a very re- 
markable fact when one 
comes to think of it 

From what has been 
written here it is plain 
that there are more 
wonders in the waves 
than their mere forms 
which so fascinate the 
eye by their infinite 


variety. It should also be added that huge 
waves have not been considered here, for the 
reason that they are only exaggerated forms 
of those here illustrated, and the simpler 
forms show more clearly what is happening. 

For the purpose of making ruy meaning 
clear I have, in the course of this article, fre- 
quently used the -words "seen" and "watch " 
with regard to waves* A final thought, how- 
ever, for those who "watch " the waves is that 
no man has ever seen a wave, A sea-wave is not 
a t/iing thut can be seen or photographed, but 
is a condition of the sea ; the w T ater agitated hy 
the wave may be seen, but the wave remains 
invisible. And its mysterious power, like 
the forces of magnetism, electricity, and 
gravitation, is something which the light of 
science has yet to penetrate. 




ove Me, Love My Dog 


Illustrated ty Harry Rountree, 


FTER five minutes of silent 
and intense thought, John 
Barton gave out the state- 
ment that the moonlight on 
the terrace was pretty. Aline 
Ellison said, " Yes, very 
" But, I say, by Jove," said a voice behind 
them, "you should see some of the moon- 
light effects on the Mediterranean, Barton. 
You really should. They would appeal to 
you. There is nothing like them, is there, 
Miss Ellison ?" 

Homicidal feelings surged up within John's 
bosom. This was the fourth time that day 
that Lord Bertie Fendall had interrupted just 
as he had got Aline alone. It was madden- 
ing. Man, in his dealings with the more 
attractive of the opposite sex, is either a 
buzzer or a thinker. John was a thinker. 
In ordinary circumstances a tolerable con- 
versationalist, he became, when in the 
.presence of Aline Ellison, a thinker of the 
most pronounced type, practically incapable 
of speech. What he wanted was time. He 
was not one of your rapid wooers, who meet 
a girl at dinner on Monday, give her their 
photograph on Tuesday morning, and propose 
on Tuesday afternoon. It took him a long 
while to get really started. He was luggage, 
not express. But he had perseverance, and, 
provided the line was kept clear, was bound 
to get somewhere in the end. 

The advent of Lord Bertie had blocked 
the line. From the moment when Mr. 
Keith, their host, had returned from London 
bringing with him the son and heir of the 
Earl of Stockleigh, John's manoeuvres had 
received a check. Until then he had had 
Aline to himself, and all that had troubled 
him had been his inability to speak. He 
had gone dumbly round the links with her, 
rowed her silently on the lake, and sat by 
in mute admiration while she played waltz 
tunes after dinner. It had not been un- 
mixed happiness, but at least there had been 
no competition. But in Lord Bertie he had 
rival, and a rival who was a buzzer. Lord 

Bertie had the gift of conversation, and a 
course of travel had provided him with 
material for small-talk. Aline, her father 
being rich and her mother a sort of female 
Ulysses, had gone over much of the ground 
which Lord Bertie had covered ; and the 
animation with which she exchanged views of 
European travel with him made John moist 
with agony. John was no fool, but he had 
never penetrated farther into the heart of the 
Continent than Paris ; and in conversations 
dealing with the view from the summit of the 
Jungfrau, or the paintings of obscure Dagoes 
in Florentine picture-galleries, this handi- 
capped him. 

On the present occasion he accepted 
defeat with moody resignation. His oppor- 
tunity had gone. The conversation was now 
dealing with Monte Carlo, and Lord Bertie had 
plainly come to stay. His high-pitched voice 
rattled on and on. Aline seemed absorbed. 

With a muttered excuse John turned into 
the house. It was hard. To-morrow he 
was leaving for London owing to the sudden 
illness of his partner. True, he would be 
coming back in a week or so, but in that 
time the worst would probably have hap- 
pened. He went to bed so dispirited that, 
stubbing his toe against a chair in the dark, 
he merely sighed. 

As he paced the terrace after breakfast, 
waiting for the motor, Keggs, the Keiths' 
butler, approached. 

At the beginning of his visit Keggs had 
inspired John with an awe amounting at 
times to positive discomfort. John was a 
big, broad-shouldered young man, and his 
hands and feet were built to scale. But no 
hands and feet outside of a freak museum 
could have been one half as large as his 
seemed to be in the earlier days of his 
acquaintanceship with Keggs. He had 
suffered terribly under the butler's dignified 
gaze, until one ruorniiig the latter, with the 
air of a high priest conferring with an under- 
ling on some point of ritual, had asked him 
whether, in his opinion, he would be doing 



tightly in putting his shirt on Mumblin' Mose 
in a forthcoming handicap, as he had been 
advised to do by a metropolitan friend who 
claimed to be in the confidence of the trainer. 
John, recovering from the shock, answered 
in the affirmative; and a long and stately 
exchange of ideas on the subject of Current 

tranquilly, as if he were naming some 
customary and recognized occupation for 

" Gruffling at ? What ! " 

u Ts lordship, sir, 'ave climbed a tree, unci 
Reuben Is at the foot, gruffling at 'im, very 



Form ensued* At dinner, a few days later, 
the butler, leaning over John to help him to 
sherrv, murmured softly : — 

" Romped 'orne, sir, thanking you^ sir," 
and from that moment had intimated by his 
manner that John might consider himself 
promoted to the rank of an equal and a 

" Excuse me, sir/' said the butler, " but 
Frederick, who *as charge of your packing, 
desired me to ask you what arrangements 
vou wished made with regard to the dog, 

The animal in question was a beautiful 
bulldog, Reuben by name. John had 
brought him to the country at the special 
request of Aline, who had met him in 
London and fallen an instant victim to his 
rugged charms. 

■The dog?" he said "Oh, yes, Tell 
Frederick to put his leash on. Where is 

14 Frederick, sir ? n 

"No, Reuben." 

u Gruffling at 'is lordship, sir," said Keggs, 

John stared, 

" 'Is lordship, sir/ 1 continued Keggs, li 'as 
always been uncommon afraid of dogs, from 
boy'ood up. I *ad i he honour to be employed 
has butler some years ago by 'is father, Lord 
Stockleigh, and was enabled at that time 
to observe Lord 'Erbert's extreme aversion 
for animals of that description. Ts bun- 
easiness in the presence of even *er 
ladyship's toy Pomeranian was 'ighly 
marked and much commented on in the 
servants 1 'all.'' 

14 So you had met Lord Herbert before?"' 

11 1 was butler at the Castle a matter of 
six years, sir." 

M Well/' said John, with some reluctance, 
*' I suppose wc must get him out of that tree. 
Fancy being afraid of old Reuben 1 Why, 
he wouldn't hurt a fly." 

* M E 'ave took an uncommon dislike to 'is 
lord ship, sir," said Keggs. 

" At the lower hend of the terrace, sir. 
Beyond the nood statoo, sir," 

John ran in the direction indicated^ his 


steps guided by an intermittent sound as of 
one gargling, Presently he came in view of 
the tree. At the foot, with his legs well 
spread and his massive head raised, stood 
Reuben. From a branch some little distance 
above the ground peered down the agitated 
face of Lord Bertie Kendall. His lordship s 
aristocratic pallor was intensified He looked 
almost green, 

" I say," he called, as John appeared, do 
for Heaven's sake take that beastly dog away. 
IVe been up here the dickens of a time. It 
isn't safe with that animal about. He's 
a bally menace." 

Reuben glancing over his shoulder recog- 
nized his master, and, having no tail to 
speak of, wagged his body in a welcoming 
way. He looked up at Lord Bertie, and 
back again at John. As clearly as if he 
had spoken the words his eye said, " Come 
along, John. You and I are friends. Be a 
sportsman and pull him down 
out of that." 

t£ Take the brute away ! " cried 
his lordship. 

" He's quite good - natured, 
really. He doesn't mean any- 
thing. He won't hurt you," 

"He won't get the bally 
chance/ 1 replied Lord Bertie, 
with acerbity. " Take him 

John stooped and grasped 
the dog's collar, 

"Come on, Reuben, you 
old fool," he said. * We shall 
be missing that train." 

The motor was already at 

the door when he got back, 

Mr, Keith was there, and Aline. 

^^ft* "Too bad, Barton/ 1 said Mr, 

^^™DIAN"*^tfi^W r **™$ to break 
your visit like this, \oull come 

««. A WLAKCH SOME LttTLE WiUC »«■ T H E G* OTS D ^.^ ? H ° W ^ ^ 




" Inside of two weeks, I hope," said John. 
" Hammond has had these influenza attacks 
before. They never last long. Have you 
seen Reuben's leash anywhere ? " 

Aline Ellison uttered a cry of anguish. 

"Oh, you aren't taking Reuben, Mr. 
Barton ! You can't ! You mustn't ! Mr. 
Keith, don't let him. Come to auntie, 
Reuben, darling. Mr. Barton, if you take 
my precious Reuben away I'll never speak 
to you again." 

John looked at her, and gulped. 

He cleared his throat 

What he wanted to say was : " Miss 
Ellison, your lightest wish is law. I love 
you— not with the weak two-by-four imitation 
of affection such as may be offered to you by 
certain knock-kneed members of the Peerage, 
but with a great, broad, deep, throbbing love 
such as the world has never known. Take 
Reuben. You have my heart, my soul ; 
shall I deny you a dog? Take Reuben. 
And when you look upon him, think, if but 
for a moment, of one who, though far away, 
is thinking, thinking always of you. Miss 
Ellison, good-bye ! " 

What he said was : "Er, I " 

And that, mind you, was pretty good going 
for John. 

" Oh, thank you ! " cried Aline. " Thank 
you so much, Mr. Barton. It's perfectly 
sweet of you, and I'll take such care of him. 
I won't let him out of my sight for a minute." 

" . . . " said John, brightly. 

Mathematicians among my readers do not 
need to be informed that " ..." is the 
algebraical sign representing a blend of 
wheeze, croak, and hiccough. 

And the motor rolled off. 

It was about an hour later that Lord 
Bertie Fendall, finding Aline seated under the 
shade of the trees, came to a halt beside her. 

" Barton went off in the car just now, 
didn't he ? " he inquired, casually. 

" Yes," said Aline. 

Lord Bertie drew a deep breath of relief. 
At last he could walk abroad without the 
feeling that at any moment that infernal dog 
might charge out at him from round the next 
corner. With a light heart he dropped into 
a chair beside Aline, and began to buzz. 

" Do you know, Miss Ellison " 

A short cough immediately behind him 
made him look round. His voice trailed off. 
His eyeglass fell with a jerk and bounded on 
the end of its cord. He sprang to his feet. 

" Oh, there you are, Reuben," said Aline. 
** Here, come here. What have you been 

doing to your nose ? It's all muddy. Aren't 
you fond of dogs, Lord Herbert? I love 

"Eh? I beg your pardon?" said his 
lordship, revolving warily on his own axis, 
as the animal lumbered past him. "Oh, 
yes. Yes. That is to say— oh, yes. Very." 

Aline was removing the mud from 
Reuben's nose with the corner of her 

" Don't you think you can generally tell a 
man's character by whether dogs take to him 
or not ? They have such wonderful instinct." 

"Wonderful," agreed his lordship, meeting 
Reuben's rolling eye and looking hastily 

"Mr. Barton was going to take Reuben 
with him, but that would have been silly for 
such a short while, wouldn't it ? " 

"Yes. Oh, yes," said Lord Bertie. "I 
suppose," he went on, "he will spend most 
of his time in the stables and so on, don't 
you know ? Not in the house, I mean, don't 
you know, what ? " 

" The idea ! " cried Aline, indignantly. 
" Reuben's not a stable dog. I'm never 
going to let him out of my sight." 

" No ? " said Lord Bertie a little feverishly. 
" No ? Oh, no. Quite so." 

" There ! " said Aline, giving Reuben a 
push. " Now you're tidy. What were you 
saying, Lord Herbert ? " 

Reuben moved a step forward, and 
wheezed slightly. 

" Excuse me, Miss Ellison," said his lord- 
ship. " I've just recollected an important 
— there's a good old boy ! — an important 
letter I meant to have written. Excuse me!" 

The announcement of his proposed de- 
parture may have been somewhat abrupt, 
but at any rate no fault could be found with 
his manner of leaving. It was ceremonious 
in the extreme. He moved out of her 
presence backwards, as if she had been 

Aline saw him depart with a slightly 
aggrieved feeling. She had been in the 
mood for company. For some reason which 
she could not define she was conscious of 
quite a sensation of loneliness. It was 
absurd to think that John's departure could 
have caused this. And yet somehow it did 
leave a blank. Perhaps it was because he 
was so big and silent. You grew used to his 
being there just as you grew used to the 
scenery, and you nnsised him when he was 
gone. HTO^Wi'WNr'MESIlIf Nelson's column 
were removed, one would feel lonely in 
Trafalgar Square. 



Lord Bertie, meanwhile, having reached 
the smoking-room, where he proposed to 
brood over the situation with the assistance 
of a series of cigarettes, found Keggs there, 
arranging the morning papers on a side-table. 
He flung himself into an armchair, and, with 
a scow] at the butler's back, struck a match. 

u I J ope your lordship is suffering no ill 
effects from the adventure?" said" Keggs, 
finishing the disposal of the papers. 

"What?" said Lord Bertie, coldly. He 
disliked Keggs. 

"1 was alluding to your lordship's en- 
counter with the dog Reuben this morning." 

Lord Bertie started. 

" What do you mean ? " 

li I observed that your lordship r ad climbed 
a tree to elude the animal/' 

•* You saw it ? " 

regarded these evidences of an overwrought 
soul sympathetically, 

"I can appreciate your lordship's he mo- 
tion, " he said, " known*' 'ow ha verse to dogs 
your lordship 'as always been. It seems 
only yesterday," he continued, reminiscently, 
11 that your lordship, then a boy at Heton, 
J ome for the 'olidays, handed me a package 
of Rough on Rats, and instructed me 
to poison 'er ladyship your mother's toy 
Pomeranian with 


Lord Bertie 
started for the 
second time 
since he had 
entered the room. 
He screwed his 
eyeglass firmly 

Keggs bowed* 

"Then why the 
devil, you silly old 
idiot," demanded his 
lordship explosively, 
" didn't you come 
and take the brute 
away ?" 

It had been the 
practice in the old days, both of Lord Bertie 
and of his father, to address the butler In 
moments of agitation with a certain aristo- 
cratic vigour. 

" I 'ardly liked to interfere, your lordship, 
beyond inform in q Mr. Batten? The animal 
being Is." 

Lord Bertie Hung his cigarette out of the 
window, and kicked a footstool, Keggs 


into his eye, and looked keenly at the 
butler. Keggs^s face was expressionless. 
Lord Bertie coughed. He looked round at 
the door* It was closed. 

" You didn't do it," he said 

"The (rwiorariiirr* which your lordship 
offere4^A#At^^NT^«P^ a tingly T " was 
only six postage-stamps and a *arf share in a 
white rat I did not consider it hadequate 



in view of the undoubted riskiness of the 
proposed act." 

44 You'd have done it if I had offered 
more ? " 

"That, your lordship, it is impossible to 
say after this lapse of time." 

The Earl of Stockleigh had at one time 
had the idea of attaching his son and heir to 
the Diplomatic Service. Lord Bertie's next 
speech may supply some clue to his lordship's 
reasons for abandoning that scheme. 

" Keggs," he said, leaning forward, " what 
will you take to poison that dashed dog, 
Reuben ? " 

The butler raised a. hand in pained 

" Your lordship, really ! " 

" Ten pounds." 

"Your lordship!" 


Keggs seemed to waver. 

" I'll give you twenty-five," said his 

Before the butler could reply, the door 
opened and Mr. Keith entered. 

" The morning papers, sir," said Keggs 
deferentially, and passed out of the room. 

It was a few days later that he presented 
himself again before Lord Bertie. His lord- 
ship was in low spirits. He was not in love 
with Aline — he would have considered it 
rather bad form to be in love with anyone — 
but he found her possessed of attractions and 
wealth sufficient to qualify her for an alliance 
with a Stockleigh ; and he had concentrated 
his mind, so far as it was capable of being 
concentrated on anything, upon bringing the 
alliance about. And up to a point every- 
thing had seemed to progress admirably. 
Then Reuben had come to the fore and 
wrecked the campaign. How could a fellow 
keep up an easy flow of conversation with 
one eye on a bally savage bulldog all the 
time ? And the brute never left her. Wher- 
ever she went he went, lumbering along like 
a cart-horse with a nasty look out of the 
corner of his eye whenever a fellow came up 
and tried to say a word. The whole bally 
situation, decided his lordship, was getting 
dashed impossible, and if something didn't 
happen to change it he would get out of the 
place and go off to Paris. 

" Might I 'ave a word, your lordship ? " 
said Keggs. 

" Well ? " 

" I ave been thinking over your lordship's 
offer " 

44 Yes ? " said Lord Bertie, eagerly. 

" The method of eliminating the animal 
which your lordship indicated would 'ardly 
do, I fear. Awkward questions would be 
asked, and a public hexpose would inevitably 
ensue. If your lordship would permit me to 
make a alternative suggestion ? " 

44 Well ? " 

" I was reading a article in the newspaper, 
your lordship, on 'ow sparrows and such is 
painted up toreperesent bullfinches, canaries, 
and so on, and I says to myself, ' Why not?"' 

"Why not what?" demanded his lordship, 

" Why not substitoot for Reuben another 
dog painted to appear identically similar?" 

His lordship looked fixedly at him. 

" Do you know what you are, Keggs ? " 
he said. " A blithering idiot." 

" Your lordship always 'ad a spirited 
manner of speech," said Keggs, deprecatingly. 

44 You and your sparrows and canaries 
and bullfinches ! Do you think Reuben's a 
bally bird ? " 

44 1 see no flaw in the idea, your lordship. 
'Orses and such is frequently treated that 
way. I was talking that matter over with 
Roberts, the chauffeur " 

44 What ! And how many more people 
have you discussed my affairs with ? " 

44 Only Roberts, your lordship. It was 
unavoidable. Roberts being the owner of a 
dog which could be painted up to be the 
living spit of Reuben, your lordship." 


44 For a hadequate 'onorarium, your lord- 

Lord Bertie's manner became excited. 

44 Where is he ? No, not Roberts. I 
don't want to see Roberts. This dog, I 

44 At Roberts's cottage, your lordship. 'E 
is a great favourite with the children." 

14 Is he, by Jove ? Good-tempered animal, 

44 Extremely so, your lordship." 

44 Show him to me, then. There might be 
something in this." 

Keggs coughed. 

44 And the 'onorarium, your lordship ? " 

44 Oh, that. Oh, I'll remember Roberts 
all right." 

14 1 was not thinking exclusively of Roberts, 
your lordship." 

44 Oh, I'll remember you, too." 

44 Thank you, your lordship. About 'ow 
extensively, your lordship ?" 

''rilf.jf^fljiaigifp^fget a couple of pounds 
apiece. That'll be all right." 

44 1 fear," said Keggs, shaking his head. 



14 hit could 'ardly be done hat the price. In 
a hearlier conversation your lordship men- 
tioned twenty-five. That, 'owever, was for 
the comparatively simple task of poisoning 
the animal. The substitootion would be more 
expensive, owing to the nature of the process. 
I was thinking of a 'undred, your lordship." 

" Don't be a fool, Keggs." 

11 1 fear Roberts could not be induced to 
do it for less, the process being expensive." 

" A hundred ! No, it's dashed absurd. I 
won't do it." 

" Very good, your lordship." 

"Here, stop. Don't go. Look here, I'll 
give you fifty." 

" I fear it could not be done, your lordship." 

11 Sixty guineas. Seven . Here, don't 

go. Oh, very well then, a hundred." 

"I thank you, your lordship. If your 
lordship will be at the be/id in the road in 
'alf an hour's time the animal will be there." 

Lord Bertie was a little early at the tryst, 
but he had not been waiting long when a 
party of three turned the corner. One of 
the party was Keggs. The second he recog- 
nized as Roberts the chauffeur, a wooden- 
faced man who wore a permanent air of 
melancholy. The third, who waddled along 
at the end of a rope, was a dingy white 

The party came to a halt before him. 
Roberts touched his hat, and eyed the dog 
sadly. The dog sniffed at his lordship with 
apparent amiability. Keggs did the honours. 

"The animal, your lordship." 

Lord Bertie put up his glass and inspected 
the exhibit. 

" Eh ? " 

" The animal I mentioned, your lordship." 

" That ?" said Lord Bertie. " Why, dash 
it all, that bally milk-coloured brute isn't like 

" Not at present, your lordship. But your 
lordship is forgetting the process. In two 
days Roberts will be able to treat that 
hanimal so that Reuben's own mother would 
be deceived." 

Lord Bertie looked with interest at the 
artist. " No, really ? Is that a fact ? " 

Roberts, an economist in speech, looked 
up, touched his hat again in a furtive manner, 
and fixed his eyes once more on the dog. 

"Well, he seems friendly all right," said 
Lord Bertie, as the animal endeavoured to 
lick his hand. 

" He 'as the most placid disposition," 

Keggs assured him. " A great improvement 

n Reuben, your lordship. Well worth the 


Hope fought with scepticism in Ix>rd 
Bertie's mind during the days that followed. 
There were moments when the thing seemed 
possible, and moments when it seemed 
absurd. Of course, Keggs was a silly old 
fool, but, on the other hand, there were 
possibilities about Roberts. The chauffeur 
had struck his lordship as a capable-looking 
sort of man- And, after all, there were 
cases on record of horses being painted and 
substituted for others, so why not bulldogs ? 

It was absolutely necessary that some step 
be taken shortly. His jerky manner and 
abrupt retreats were getting on Aline's nerves. 
He could see that. 

" Look here, Keggs," he said, on the third 
morning. " I can't wait much longer. If 
you don't bring on that dog soon, the whole 
thing's off." 

" We 'ave already effected the change, 
your lordship. The delay 'as been due to 
the fact that Roberts wished to make an 
especial good job of it" 

" And has he ? " 

" That I will leave your lordship to decide. 
The hanimal is now asleep on the terrace." 

He led the way to where a brown heap lay 
in the sunshine. His lordship followed with 
some diffidence. 

" An extraordinary likeness, your lordship." 

Lord Bertie put up his eyeglass. 

" By Jove, I should say it was. Do you 
mean to tell me ? " 

" If your lordship will step forward and 
prod the animal, your lordship will be con- 
vinced by the amiability " 

" Prod him yourself," said Lord Bertie. 

Keggs did so. The slumberer raised his 
head dreamily, and rolled over again. Lord 
Bertie was satisfied. He came forward and 
took a prod. With Reuben this would have led 
to a scene of extreme activity. The excellent 
substitute merely flopped back on his side 

" By Jove ! it's wonderful," he said. 

" And if your lordship 'appens to have 
a cheque-book handy ? " 

" You're in a bally hurry," said Lord Bertie, 

" It's Roberts, your lordship," sighed 
Keggs. "'E is a poor man, and 'e 'as a 
wife and children." 

After lunch Aline was plaintive. 

" I can't make out," she said, "what is the 
matter with Reuben. He doesn't seem to 
care for me any more. He won't come when 
I call. lie wants to sleep all the time.* 

" Oh, he'll soon get used — I mean," added 
Lord Bertie, hastily, " he'll soon get over it 



I expect he has been in the sun too much, 
don't you know." 

The substitute's lethargy continued during 
the rest of that day, but on the following 
morning after breakfast Lord Bertie observed 
him rolling along the terrace behind Aline, 
Presently the two settled themselves under 
the big sycamore tree, and his lordship 
sallied forth. 

M And how is Reuben this morning ? " he 
inquired, brightly, 

" He's not very well, poor old thing/' said 
Aline. " He was rather sick in the night." 

" No, by Jove ; really ? w 

What exactly occurred Lord Bertie could not 
have said. There was a sort of explosion. 
The sleeping dog seemed to uncurl like a 
released watch-spring, and the air became full 
of a curious blend of sniff and snarl An 
eminent general has said that the science of 
war lies in knowing when to fall back. 
Something, some instinct, seemed to tell 
Lord Bertie that the moment was ripe for 
falling back, and he did so over a chair. 

He rose, with a scraped shin, to find Aline 
holding the dog's collar with both hands, her 
face flushed with the combination of wrath 
and muscular effort. 


think he must have eaten something 
that disagreed with him. That's why he was 
so quiet yesterday," 

Lord Bertie glanced sympathetically at the 
brown mass on the ground. How wary one 
should be of judging by looks. To all 
appearances that dog there was Reuben, his 
foe. But beneath that Reuben-like exterior 
beat the gentle heart of the milk-coloured 
substitute, with whom he was on terms of 
easy friendship. 

* Poor old fellow ! " he said 

He bent down and gave the animal's ear 
a playful tweak- . . . 

It was a simple action, an action from 
which one would hardly have expected 
anything in the nature of interesting by- 
*t it undoubtedly produced them, 

do that for ? " she 
" I told you he was 

" What did you 
demanded, fiercely* 

" I— I — I " stammered his lordship. 

The thing had been so sudden. The 
animal had gone off like a bomb, 

«I_I. ■ 

11 Run : w she panted " I can't hold him, 
Run! Jbml" 

Lord Bertie cast one look at the bristling 
animal, and decided that her advice was 
good and should be followed. 

He had reached the road before he 
slowed to a walk, Then, feeling safe, he was 
about to light 3. cigarette, when the match 
fell froWMa.fiteW'^lto- stood gaping 

Round the bend of the road> from the 
direction of Roberts's cottage, there had 





appeared a large bulldog of a dingy-white " Your lordship wished to see me ?" 

colour, Lord Bertie, who was rubbing his shin 

reflectively with his back to the door, wheeled, 

Keggs, swathed in a green baize apron, and glared hatefully at the saintly figure 
was meditatively polishing Mr. Keith's silver before him. 
in his own private pantry, humming an air 
as he worked, whtni Frederick, the footman, 
came to him* Frederick was a supercilious 
young man, with long legs and a receding 

41 Polishing the silver, old top?" he 
inquired, genially. 

"In answer to your question, Frederick/' 
replied K eggs, with dignity, "I ham polish- 
ing the silver. JJ 

Frederick, in his opinion, needed to be 
kept in his place. 

u His nibs is asking for you," said 

11 You allude to " 





u Bertie/ 1 said Frederick, definitely. 

11 If," said Keggs, " Lord 'Erbert Fendall 
desires to see me, I will go to 'im at once/ 1 

"Another bit of luck for "Erbert," said 
Frederick* cordially* l( 'E's in the smoking- 


"You bally old swindler!" he 

" Your lordship ! " 

** Do you know I could have 
you sent to prison for obtaining 
money under false pretences ? " 

"Your lordship! 1 ' 

" Don't stand there pretending 
not to know what I mean/' 

"If your lordship would ex- 
plain, I 'ave no doubt " 

" Explain ! By Jove, I'll ex- 
plain, if that's what you want. 
What do you mean by doping 
Reuben and palming him off on 
me as another dog? Is that 
plain enough ? w 
words is intelligible, 1 

'tfWSin a» 1 Woi-* ccusation 

"Your lordship/' said Keggs, soothingly, 
" 'as been deceived, has I predicted, by the 


is over- 



reely extraordinary likeness. Roberts 'as 
undoubtedly eclipsed 'imself." 

" Do you mean to tell me that dog is the 
one you showed me in the road? Then 
how do you account for this? I saw that 
milk-coloured brute of Roberts's out walking 
only a moment ago." 

" Roberts 'as two, your lordship." 


"The himage of one another, your 


" Twins, your lordship," added the butler, 

Lord Bertie upset a chair. 

"Your lordship," said Keggs, "if I may 
say so, 'as always from boy'ood up been a 
little too 'asty at jumping to conclusions. If 
your lordship will recollect, it was your lord- 
ship's 'asty assertion as a boy that you 'ad 
seen me occupied in purloining 'is lordship 
your father's port wine that led to my losing 
the excellent situation, which I might be 
still 'oldin', of butler at Stockleigh Castle." 

Lord Bertie stared. 

"Eh? What? So that ? I see!" he 

said. "By Jove, I see it all. You've 
been trying to get a bit of your own back. 

" Your lordship ! I 'ave done nothing. 
'Appily I can prove it" 

"Prove it?" 

The butler bowed. 

" The resemblance between the two animals 
is extraordinary, but not absolutely complete. 
Reuben 'as a fall set of teeth, but Roberts's 
dog 'as the last tooth but one at the back 

He paused. 

" If your lordship," he added with the 
dignity that makes the good man, wronged, 
so impressive, " wishes to disprove my asser- 
tions, the modus hoperandi is puffectly 
simple. All your lordship 'as to do is to 
open the animal's mouth and submit 'is 
back teeth to a pussonal hinspection." 

John Barton alighted from the motor, and, 
in answer to Keggs's respectful inquiry, replied 
that he was quite well. 

" Where is everybody ? " he asked. 

" Mr. Keith is out walking, sir. 'Is lord- 
ship 'as left. Miss " 

" Left ! " 

" 'Is lordship was compelled to leave a few 
days back, sir, 'avin' business in Paris." 

" Ah ! Returning soon, I suppose ? " 

"On that point, sir, 'is lordship seemed 
somewhat uncertain." 

" How is Reuben ? " 

" Reuben 'ave enjoyed good 'ealth, sir. 
'E is down by the lake, I fancy, sir, at the 
present moment, with Miss Ellison." 

" I think I might as well go and see him," 
said John, awkwardly. 

" I fancy 'e would appreciate it, sir." 

John turned away. The lake was some 
distance from the house. The nearer he got 
to it the more acute did his nervousness 
become. Once or twice after he had caught 
the gleam of Aline's white dress through the 
trees he almost stopped, then forced himself 
on in a sort of desperation. 

Aline was standing at the water's edge 
encouraging Reuben to growl it a duck. 
Both suspended operations and turned to 
greet him, Reuben effusively, Aline with the 
rather absent composure which always 
deprived him of the power of speech. 

" I've taken great care of Reuben, Mr. 
Barton," she said. 

Something neat and epigrammatic should 
have proceeded from John. It did not. 

" I'd like to have you all for my own, 
wouldn't I, Reuben ? " she went on, bending 
over the snuffling dog, and kissing him 
fondly in the groove between his eyes. 

It was a simple action, but it had a remark- 
able effect on John. Something inside him 
seemed suddenly to snap. In a moment he ** 
had become very cool and immensely 
determined. Conversation is a safety-valve. 
Deprive a man of the use of it for a long 
enough time, and he is liable to explode at 
any moment. It is the general idea that the 
cave-man's first advance to the lady of his 
choice was a blow on the head with his club. 
This is not the case. He used the club 
because, after hanging round for a month or 
so trying to think of something to say, it 
seemed to him the only way of disclosing his 
affection. John was a lineal descendant of 
the caveman. He could not use a club, for 
he had none. But he did the next best 
thing. Stooping swiftly, he seized Aline 
round the waist, picked her up,, and 
kissed her. 

She stood staring at him, her lips parted, 
her eyes slowly widening till they seemed to 
absorb the whole of her face. Reuben, 
with the air of a dramatic critic at an 
opening performance, sat down and awaited 

A minute before, John would have wilted 
beneath that stare. But now the spirit of 
the cans man was; strong in him. He seized 
her hands, and pulled her slo'wly towards him. 

" You're going to have us both," he said. m 


The Nautical Almanac and the 
Lighter Side or Astronomy. 


MA. RR.A.S^of H«M "Nautical Almanac" Office 

F one asks the ordinary man 
in the street, " What is the 
f Nautical Almanac ' ? " or, 
" Where is the * Nautical 
Almanac * office ? " in all like- 
lihood no reply will be forth- 
coming. Little knowledge 
exists in his mind regarding the one or the 
other, and yet it is not too much to say that 
the " Nautical Almanac" is one of the most 
important publications of the day, and one 
of the very essentials of astronomy and navi- 
gation alike. The retirement of its super- 
intendent on the 13th of last April may 
well, therefore, be made the occasion for 
some notes dealing with the publication 
which he has directed for so many years. 

This all-important Government Blue Book 
— of close on seven hundred pages — is known 
the world over as the Sailor's Bible and 
Ocean Guide. Although it is not a book to 
be seen on railway bookstalls or in lending 
libraries, and is rarely met with in the collec- 
tion of the average household, yet it ts so 
essential a part of a nautical outfit that a 
ship, whether stately liner, majestic battle- 
ship, or ocean tramp, would as soon think of 
sailing to sea without her compass as without 
this precious volume. The explorer, too, 
over the desert sands or trackless ice, must 
have his " N. A." with him, and would rather 
part with food and stores than with its sacred 
pages. Many well-known travellers have 
publicly declared their indebtedness to it. 
Dr. Nansen, before setting out on his adven- 
turous journey northwards, paid a visit to the 
" Nautical Almanac" Office and was supplied 
with advance proofs to aid him in his calcu- 
lations, and after his Polar expedition he 
stated that for some considerable time during 
is lengthy stay in the Far North the only 

book to which he had access was a volume 
of the work in question. 

The great African traveller, Dr. Living- 
stone, was once obliged to reduce his library 
to the Bible and the "Nautical Almanac"; 
and M, du Chaillu and the late Captain 
Speke were placed in a similar position upon 
various occasions. The work, too, of sur- 
veyors and boundary commissioners on the 
African continent and elsewhere is dependent 
on the figures tabulated in its pages. The 
"Nautical Almanac," moreover, finds its way 
into all the observatories of the world, from 
Siberia to the Cape and from California 
to Hong-Kong ; and to the numerous and 
ever-increasing army of amateur astronomers 
and star-gazers it acts as guide, philosopher, 
and friend. It has thus contributed more, 
perhaps, than any other work to the practical 
development of astronomy, geography, and 
navigation, and in its modern and improved 
form continues to be the honoured vade 
mecum of the present - day astronomer, 
explorer, and navigator. 

Now this work, although so indispensable, 
is not at first sight very inviting, by reason 
of its serried ranks of figures and its mystic 
signs, hut it is nevertheless worthy of closer 
study than is usually bestowed upon it Every 
year a new edition of this same w T ork issues 
from the office, representing a whole twelve 
months' labour and application on the part 
of the staff. No other work of its size 
demands so much time and trouble, and 
certainly no other needs it more, for upon the 
accuracy of its information and the absolute 
correctness of its contents depend the lives 

of thousands^ naWfi?fti f ar out at sea * an< ^ 
away ffj^^^s^^^ ^information but the 
" lights of heaven/' compass, sextant, chrono- 
meter, and "Nautical Almanac," the mariner 



realizes the importance of accuracy in a way 
which few landsmen can imagine. An error 
of a few minutes, or even seconds, will put 
him considerably out of his position, thus 
increasing his food and coal bill, and may 

eclipses of the sun and moon, the details of 
which are calculated to a nicety. He watches 
with the keenest delight the progress of the 
grand and sometimes impressive phenomenon 
so accurately foretold him in the Almanac, 

even place him in danger, and ultimately lead and brought to his notice, it may be, through 

to the total loss of his ship and all on board 
As its name implies, the " Nautical 
Almanac 1 ' is prepared mainly for the use of 
the sailor In guiding his ship across the 
trackless ocean he must be continually finding 
his whereabouts on his chart ; in other words, 
his latitude and longitude* To settle his 
latitude he observes the sun at noon by 
means of his sextant, taking its altitude above 
the horizon. Then, turning to his Almanac, 
he finds the sun's " declination " at noon, or 
its distance north or south of the Equator, 
and with this quantity and his observation 
combined he fixes his latitude. At night, 
the sun being unavailable, he employs the 
moon, a star, or a planet in a similar manner. 
To settle his longitude, he must know both 
his local and Greenwich time. The former 
is found by observation and calculation aided 
by the "Nautical Almanac," and the latter 
he learns from his chronometers. The differ- 
ence between them shows him his number 
of degrees East or West of Greenwich. For, 
as the sun passes over three hundred and 
sixty degrees of longitude in one day, or 
fifteen degrees in one hour, if he calculated 
his ship's time to be exactly two hours 
behind the Greenwich time at noon, he 
would know that he was in longitude thirty 
degrees West, 

In addition to these 
tables, which are intended 
primarily for the mariner, 
there are others which 
appeal chiefly to the astro- 
nomer, such as tables of 
the planets, Jupiter's satel- 
lites, eclipses, occupations, 
etc. ; and here, 'whether 
amateur or professional, he 
will find material enough 
for the purposes of obser- 
vation and research, and 
also for the practical pur- 
pose of correcting his 
sidereal clock or finding 
his local time. At one 
point more perhaps than 
at any other the "Nautical 
Almanac" appeals to the 
interest and attention of the 
layman, and that is in those 
striking phenomena, the 

the agency of the daily Press* More than 
delighted, too, is he when he first catches a 
glimpse of the elusive planet Mercury through 
his opera-glass \ or sees the satellites of Jupiter 
appearing as mere pin-points to his gaze, and 
in the positions tabulated in the Almanac, 
Then, again, from the data recorded in the 
Almanac are calculated the risings and 
settings of the sun, moon, and planets, so 
familiar in the columns of the ordinary every- 
day almanac* 

The "Nautical Almanac" office, now a 
separate department of the Admiralty, is 
situated in a quiet, old-world corner of Gray's 
Inn, the ancient seat of the Barons Grey of 
Wilton. It was moved to Gray's Inn some- 
where about the year 1842. There, in that 
quiet abode, astronomical science is shaped 
and moulded to meet the requirements of 
practical life, and there astronomy may be 
said to acquire its utilitarian value. 

It may safely be said that no one outside 
the office has read the entire " Nautical 
Almanac M from beginning to end, but each 
figure of the printed Almanac is, in the office, 
examined twice and read three times. The 
total number of figures exceeds a million, 
but, great as that number is, it is trifling 
compared with the number of figures 

A MUCH-KEUUCJlKJ facsimile of the 




employed in the calculations, as the Almanac 
figures represent "bare" results only. The 
moon, for instance, requires for its calcula- 
tion more than a million and a half of figures, 
and similarly with other branches of the 
work, such as the sun, the planetb, etc. 
Contrary to the general opinion, practically 
every figure in the book is fresh from year to 

The tables from which nearly all the work 
is calculated have been originally constructed 
from the labours of the astronomical observer, 

pardoned for drawing the conclusion that the 
ordinary work of the department — saturated 
as it is with figures — must be prosaic to a 
degree. But it has an interesting side as 
well, as the sequel will show. 

Various calculations bearing on interesting 
subjects are made from time to time by the 
assistants, many of which appear in the form 
of circulars, and are distributed to learned 
societies, institutions, etc. For the War 
Office an Egyptian Almanac is prepared 
annually. Its calculation is deemed neces- 

For the Year 1890. 

Golden Number - 
Epact - - - - 
Solar Cycle - - 

jo I Dominical Letter 

9 I Roman Indict ion - 

%\ I Julian Period - * 






and to a large extent from the observations of 
the sun, moon, and planets made at the 
Royal Observatory, Greenwich. Telescopes 
and other astronomical appliances are con- 
spicuously absent, as the work of the staff is 
purely mathematical and not observational. 

In spite of all the official zeal for the 
welfare of the Almanac, a curious mistake 
once crept into the Almanac for 1890, the 
bottom of an " E " (the Dominical letter for 
the year) breaking in type so as to make it 
look like an "F." It appeared as "E" in 
every proof submitted for correction, and was 
damaged in some mysterious way in printing 
off. The whole edition of the Almanac 
appeared with the Dominical letter "F." 
Those ever on the alert to find fault with 
painstaking officials in the public service 
were only too eager to point out the error, 
but it was then too late to remedy it. The 
Dominical letter is of great importance to 
many people, showing as it does all the 
Sundays in the year. The effect of the 
mistake was to make Sunday the 6th of 
January instead of the 5th, and so on. 

The "Nautical Almanac" is published 
several years in advance for the convenience 
of ships going out on long voyages, and some 
parts of the work are already done for many 
-~ars ahead. 

"rom the foregoing remarks one might be 

sary by the authorities in view of the fact 
that in one of the Egyptian campaigns the 
Army was suddenly startled during a night 
march by a total eclipse of the moon, for 
which it was not prepared. To prevent 
another surprise of that nature, the Almanac 
is regularly produced, and any such phe- 
nomenon is carefully noted therein. 

Questions, too, regarding the Almanac are 
asked from time to time. Perhaps one corre- 
spondent may desire to know the time of full 
moon one hundred years ago, or another the 
state of the moon at the time of the Gun- 
powder Plot. Ancient eclipses have to be 
calculated to confirm historical records, and 
recently it fell to the lot of one or two of the 
assistants to calculate the time of high 
water at Dover at the landing of Julius 
Caesar in August, b.c. 55. On another occa- 
sion it was required to calculate the time of 
rising of the Dog Star Sirius at Alexandria on 
the 15th of June, b.c. 4241 ! 

Inquiries of the strangest kind reach 
astronomers from all parts, but it would be 
hard to beat the one made by a simple-minded 
farmer, who on one occasion wrote to the 
Astronomer Royal to ask whether he could 
tell how many piglings his sow would farrow 
next time, as he was anxious to be ready for 
any emergency. He must have thought the 
Astronomer Royal was gifted with second 



sight, or perhaps, like Kepler of old, dabbled 
somewhat in astrological science* 

A more intimate knowledge of time and 
its attendant circumstances would have 
assisted the resident in one of the Western 
States of America, who had insured himself 
against accidents for a year dating from noon 
on November 13th. At n a,m. on Novem- 
ber 13th of the following year he met with 
an accident and claimed, The company 
successfully resisted on the ground that, as 
their head office was in New York, the time 
stated in the policy was noon at that city, 
and that as the accident happened at eleven 
o'clock on the zone two hours West, the 
policy had already lapsed. 

A knowledge of mathematical astronomy 
was essential in deciding a case which came 
before the Courts recently, and in which a 
market gardener claimed compensation for 
loss of sunlight from the owner of a block of 
buildings which he considered an obstruction. 
The annual loss of light occasioned by the 
shutting out of the sunlight was calculated 
by one of the 
Almanac " staff, 
and practically de- 
termined the case. 

That the 
science of astro- 
nomy is useful also 
in emergencies 
and in '* tight 
corners" is shown 
by the story of 
Columbus, who, 
when he had to 
deal with a re- 
bellious crew*, 
threatened to take 
away the sun, 
being well aware 
that a solar eel ipse 
was due about the 
time he spoke. 
Apropos of 
Columbus, phila- 
telists must be 
interested in a 

certain Honduras stamp which shows a 
picture of Columbus discovering America^ 
using a telescope 1 

From this stage the further step to what 
may be called ihe lighter side of astronomy 
is an easy one. One might well question 
whether any such lighter side existed, and 
whether any humour lies wrapped up in the 
calculation of the orbit of, say, Halley's 


Comet, in the tracing out of the path of one 
of the planets, in watching the sky for hours 
at a stretch in the hope of picking up a few 
stray meteors, or in trying to discover a 
satellite of Venus, or a second moon of the 
earth. That may very well be, but still, in 
the attitude, wise and otherwise, of people 
towards astronomy their efforts to understand 
a little of the science, and the mistakes into 
which they fall, a great many little items crop 
up and incidents occur which both interest 
and amuse. 

It is a well-known fact — and may have a 
physiological basis — that most people regard 
the moon as being about one foot m diameter. 
That these popular measurements tend to 
mislead, and are not the best means of 
dealing with celestial dimensions, the follow- 
ing dialogue would indicate : — 

Mrs, S — — ; " By the way 3 I hear Jupiter, 
the evening star, is worth seeing just now. 
Can either of you girls tell me where to look 
for it ? " 

Bertha: "Yes, I can. It's exactly two 

yards and a half 
to the right of 
the Great Bear." 

Mrs* S- : 

"Two yards and 
a half ! What on 
earth do you 
mean ? " 

Bertha: "Well, 
Fve measured 
it carefully with 
my umbrella.'' 

Some few years 
ago an evening 
paper published 
the following 
sparkling verses 
on the occasion 
of the disgrace 
and degradation 
of Li Hung 
Chang, reviving 
an old epigram 
upon the fate of 
two Chinese 
astronomers who 
were put to death by the Emperor for getting 
drunk on the night when an eclipse was due :— 

** Here rest the bones of Ho and Hi, 
Whose fate was sad, yet risible ; 

Being hang'd because they did not spy 
TV eclipse that was invisible* 

* ( Heigh-ho I 5 tis sad n love of drink 

Bin this is hardly true, I thinly 
Fot drunken folks see double* 



"Li Hung Chang will at least have the 
satisfaction of knowing that he has failed 

The difficulties of teaching astronomy even 
in its most elementary form are* perhaps, 
only known to those who have attempted it. 
A London assistant schoolmistress stated 
some time ago that she was now fully con- 
vinced **of the inutility of attempting to 
instil into the minds of nine-year-old girls a 
knowledge of the more recondite branches 
of astronomy/* She says that, according to 
instructions, she explained to her class the 
uses and purposes of the zodiac. Some days 
afterwards she resumed the astronomy lesson, 
and, in order to test the recollection of the 
pupils, she asked, "What is the zodiac?" 
"There aretvt none now, ma'am," replied one 
little girl; "it's bust up." "What's burst 
up ? " asked the 

teacher } in 




sody J urk, 

" un- 

swered th< 

- gH 



made the 


w a t e r j 

a n d 



this catastrophe the 

thrown out of 
work." Investiga- 
tion showed that 
a soda-water 
manufactory in 
the neighbour- 
hood where the 
girl lived had been 
closed through 
the bursting of a 
steam* pipe, and 
the pupil had seen in 
collapse of the zodiac. 

Parents, as well as teachers, have sometimes 
to run the gauntlet of awkward questions. 

" Father," said little Tommy one day, 
" what is an equinox ? " 

Father: "Why, cr — it is — ahem! For 
goodness' sake, Tommy, don't you know any- 
thing about mythology at all ? An equinox 
was a fabled animal — half horse, half cow. 
Its name is derived from the words * equine* 
and '©**' It does seem as if these public 
schools don't teach children anything nowa- 

This is perhaps equalled by the definition 
given by a proud father who derived the word 
from e$na t "mare," and nox % "night," and 
called it '* nightmare," which may have 
expressed his feelings fairly enough. He 
lay have been the man who could quite 


understand how the distances of the stars 
were determined, but was puzzled as to how 
they found out their names. 

The answers to examination questions are 
a fruitful source of amusement. One student 
on being asked to state some reasons for the 
rotundity of the earth, gave the following: — 
" (i.) On watching for the disappearance of 
a ship, the last thing visible is the hull. This 
proves that the earth curves, for if the earth 
had been flat the last thing visible would 
have been the masts of the ships* 

"(2.) The phases of the moon are caused 
by the earth's coming between it and the sun, 
and therefore casting the shadow on iL This 
shadow is always of a circular shape. 

" (3.) If at any place on the earth's surface 
three stakes are driven into the ground at 
equnl distances from one another and a rope 

is stretched hori- 
zontally between 
each stake and 
the one opposite 
to it, the middle 
rope will appear 
the highest, and 
the farthest one 
the lowest." 

The following 
question was once 
set : " There is 
reason to believe 
that the earth now 
rotates in a longer 
time than for- 
merly. What effect 
would such alte- 
ration have upon 
the length of a 
second of time ? " One student replied that 
the earth turns round more slowly now than 
it used to because it has become so densely 
populated. Another volunteered the state- 
ment that the fact alluded to in the question 
probably accounts for the great ages of the 
people in the Bible, since, the earth moving 
more slowly, the years have become longer* 

The following illuminating description of 
parallax was supplied to an examiner: "The 
movement of a certain star in relation to 
other slurs. Its size may be compared with 
the diameter of a sixpence and three miles, ,T 

Having to explain the statement that the 
sun never sets on the British Empire, a 
youthful essayist wrote as follows : " The sun 
sets in tb%jWfWk| f [Kqw the British Empire 

lie * in (ftPWHS^MfSfifelfT 11 . ■■*" . , 

His geographical knowledge was about 
equal to that of the old woman who was 



asked where her sailor son was now. f£ Well, 
I don't mind rightly, mum," she said, "if he 
be gone to Gibraltar in the Jupiter -, or to 
Jupiter in the Gibraltar^ but it be somewheres 
in them parts," 

Worth recording also is the remark of the 
old gentleman who, on seeing a fine rainbow, 
said, "Who that sees that perfect arch can 
doubt for one moment that the earth is round?" 

** What is the cause of the rainbow ? " a 
candidate was asked. "The subject, as I 
understand it, Is 
not very well 
understood/' was 
his luminous 
answer* He was 
perhaps unaware 
of the quaint re- 
mark once made 
by a little girl who 
had suddenly 
caught sight of a 
rainbow, " Oh ! 
granny," she said, 
*■ look what a 
beautiful sun- 
stroke ! " 

Even the 
examiner trips sometimes, as the follow- 
ing question set at a Cambridge Higher 
Local Examination shows : "If Venus 
rises at midnight on June 22nd, find 
its position in the ecliptic, and the time 
of setting," This peculiar rising of 
Venus is, of course* an impossibility. 

But enough of the examination 
room and its store of undigested 
information. Let us turn now to journalism. 

Experienced journalists, accustomed to 
dash off articles at a moment's notice, 
naturally fall into mistakes when dealing with 
subjects of an astronomical nature. One 
joumaiistj in describing the surrender of 
Cronje on the morning of February 27 th (the 
new moon fell about noon on March ist), 
wrote of the young moon rising at that period, 
and how, after it had pursued its course for 
two hours, its light showed the Boer com- 
mander that he was surrounded. 

Ft is also startling to read elsewhere that 
(i on the links the signallers of the Dundee 
City Rifles spent the hours of darkness 
manipulating the heliograph" 

Dog-days, we are told by another authority, 
are dog-days "because a bright particular 
star known to star-gazers as the Dog Star 
makes friends with the sun for that length of 
time. The star rises with ihe sun and adds 
to its heat Dog-days end on August nth, 


when possibly the Dog Star goes to the 

The following is from Plmch of July 7th, 
1909 : — 

"A Very Near Thing.— June 21st is 
the longest day. The sun rises at 3.44 and 
sets at 8,18, whereas on the following day it 
rises at 3.45 and sets at 8. 19. — Manchester 
Evening News. 

"In decent June weather one might 
have called it a dead -heat" 

A newspaper 
was responsible 
recently for the 
statement regard- 
ing a celebrity 
that "his fame as 
a teacher and as 
an operating sur- 
geon has been 
carried to the 
four corners of 
the earth. By his 
writings he has 
reaclied even a 
wider circled This 
may not establish 
any connection 
between astro- 
nomy and "astral 
systems," but the 
following tit-bit, 
at any rate, seems 
to connect astro- 
nomy and gastro- 

" He's quite a 
star as an after-dinner speaker, isn't he?" 

"Star? He's a regular moon. j He 
becomes brighter the fuller he gets," 

To artists and poets a greater licence is 
usually accorded in dealing with their respec- 
tive subjects, and it cannot be said that they 
do not take full advantage of it* The former 
are sometimes careless in the manner in 
which they introduce the moon into land- 
scapes. One occasionally sees the moon 
near the horizon, with the horns turned dmvn- 
wards^ a piece of drawing fit to go with 
Hogarth's barrel, which shows both its heads 
at once. Often, too, we find stars which 
appear to be inside the dark limb of the 
moon — a physical impossibility, of course. 
The Turkish ensign is misleading in this 

The artist Millars nn one occasion painted 

necessary correction. 





An artist once painted the picture of a 
beautiful girl sitting by a sundial, but by a 
strange mistake he put the figure 1 2 on the 
dial due east of the gnomon instead of due 

That well-known stanza from the poem of 
Charles Wolfe : — 

We buried him darkly at dead of night. 
The sods with our bayonets turning ; 

By the struggling moonbeam's misty light, 
And ilit lantern dimly burning, 

is no doubt very poetical, but unfortunately 
there was no moon visible at Corunna at the 
time of the occurrence, 

In one of Rider Haggard's novels the 
moon is said to rise in the evening, from 
which we infer that the moon must be full or 
near the full, Then, according to his descrip- 
tion, the moon is visible for the next seven 
nights, during the eighth night it sets, and 
the next night, about the ninth after full 

nzeH by GOOgfe 

moon, it rises full This is in- 
deed a marvellous moon, and 
can find a parallel only in that 
case where the moon eclipsed 
the sun during the morning and 
was full on the evening of the 
same day ! 

Dickens tells us of a star 
which remained in the zenith 
for several hours, and we have 
heard of a lady novelist who, in 
describing a sunset, states that 
Venus was at the time rising 
in the eastern sky. 

In the Daily Nation there 
once appeared a sentence 
wherein Mr. Dillon boasted 
that his resplendent star was 
high and culminating on the 

The story of the American 
who possessed a sky-scraper so 
tall that there w + as snow on it 
all the year round is capped by 
that of another Yankee* who 
said that his skyscraper was so 
tall that it had to be lowered 
every night to let the moon 
pass ! 

Thomas Moore, in 1814, 
wrote : — ■ 

The sunflower turns on the god when 

he sets 
The same look which she turned when 

lie rose. 

But the sunflower does not turn to the sun 
as suggested- The flower is so called simply 
because the flower resembles a picture sun; 
it is not a heliotrope at all, 

We shall draw this essay to a close with a 
reference to Tennyson. 

In " Maud " he has a passage which tells 
of the month when the daffodil dies, and the 
Charioteer and the Gemini hang over Orion's 
grave, the poet evidently referring to the 
months of April and May. Close to the 
same passage he speaks of Mars as bt?ing 
"like a ruddy shield on the Lion's breast" 

The whole passage refers to the Crimean 
War, which lasted from 1854 to 1856. The 
exactness of Tennyson's writing was here 
exemplified in a very striking manner, as in 
1854 the planet Mars was in April and May 
" stationary " in the constellation Leo (the 
Lion), and just in the position where Tenny- 
son described it^ f rom 



Author oj "Just a Girl? 

" Diane's Quest? etc. 

Illustrated ty Dudley Hardy, RX, R.B.A 

S Neville opened the door of 
the manager's room a lady 
was coming out. Neville 
drew back to make way for 
her, and, in doing so, glanced 
at her, but not curiously ; for 
very few of the ladies who 
visited Harry Malty — his name and descrip- 
tion on the bills of the Thespis were " Harold 
Mai tra vers, Sole Manager " — excited either 
curiosity or interest in Neville, who, though a 
distinguished playwright, regarded actresses 
very much as a chess - player regards his 
pieces, and not as beings of flesh and blood 
containing that most mysterious of things, a 
souL But an indefinable quality in her 
movements, the slight little gesture with 
which she acknowledged his courtesy, smote 
faintly on his notice, and he inquired, though 
casually : — 

" Who was that, Malty?" 
"That," replied Malty, as he shook hands 
— he belonged io the class of men which 
insists upon shaking hands at every possible 
opportunity—" that was our new young Indy ; 
subject to your approval, of course, dear boy, 
I'd have asked her to wait if I'd known it was 
you outside. But you'll see her at rehearsal 
tomorrow, I've asked her to come in at 
ha If- past eleven and run over the part, just to 
see whether she'll do." 

" Who is she ? " asked Neville. " She had 
her veil down, and that landing of yours is so 
confoundedly dark. Some day someone will 
fall down those stairs, break his neck, and 
come on you for damages," 

VoL xL— 2a 

Malty laughed at this intentional bull, as 
he always did at the smallest of Neville 
Norris's jokes, fur Neville was the most 
profitable author of the day, and his last two 
comedies had enjoyed long runs, during 
which they had played nearly all the time to 
"full capacity. n 

M Well, her name is Mary Howard, and it's 
her right name, too. She's the daughter of 
a doctor — not a clergyman this time," he 
chuck led , and lit a monster cigar, pushing 
the box to Neville, who declined with a 
shake of the head, "And I tell you she's a 
stunner! You didn't see her, you say? 
You'd have opened your eyes if you had, for 
she's one of the best-looking girls I've met 
with — and I've seen a few, as you know* 
Quite be-auti-ful Splendid figure, too. 
And a voice like music; one of those deep 
voices with soft notes in 'em, It will carry 
right across the house, even when she 

Neville sat astride a chair and lit a cigar- 
ette. He was used to Malty's rhapsodies 
over his new finds, and was unmoved by his 
present enthusiasm, 

"I don't remember the name," he said. 
"Where has she been?" 

"That's just it," replied Malty, nodding 
and smiling triumphantly, "She hasn't been 
anywhere, She's my own find ; my own 
particular precious pearl j and I tell you 
she'll come to the top of the basket, Neville, 
my boy. She'll play Cynthia right down to 
the ground, knd fairly knock 'em with it." 

"Will she?" said Neville, with a slight 



frown, " It J s rather a big part, and requires 
some acting, some experience, You tell me 
this is her first trial, the very first thing she 
has done ? Isn't it rather risky ? The play 
mainly depends on Cynthia, and the part will 
make a very heavy call even upon a woman 
who knows the ropes, and this girl is quite 
new ** 

" Don't you be nervous," cut in Malty, 
rolling his huge head, " I tell you she's all 
right. Do you think I don't know? Now, do 
I often make 
mistakes ? Be- 
sides, though she 
hasn't been oh 
the regular stage, 
she's been doing 
a lot of amateur 
Neville groaned 
slightly. " Yes, 
I know ! But she 
isn't the kind of 
girl you've got in 
your mind; 
there's none of 
that silly, affected 
nonsense about 
her ; and not a 
ha'porth of con- 
ceit. You can 
take it from me 
she's a perfect 
find and" — he 
coughed behind 
his be ringed 
hand — "we shall 
get her cheap," 

"Well, we shall 
see," said Neville, 
ri sing with a 
slight shrug of 
his shoulders, 

41 It sounds rather appalling j but you know 
your business, Malty," 

" I flatter myself I do, old boy ; and I 
ought to by this time, I've been at it, man 
and boy, for — well, for some years. Of course, 
we should have been quite safe with Nellie ; 
but she's gone off and married her turnip- 
headed young lord, so there's an end of her ! 
You leave it to me, Neville, and we shall 
come out all right." 

"Well," said Neville, doubtfully, "here's 
the cut copy for the last act j I've taken out 
as much as I can, and they must play it a 
bit quickly." 

The two men talked business for half an 
hour or so ; then Neville, declining a share 

?m 1 f« 5 

of Malty's morning champagne* left the 
theatre and returned to his rooms on the 
Embankment They were very good rooms, 
for Neville Norris was one of the successful 
men of his profession. He was a dramatist 
by instinct, and he had profited by expe- 
rience ; there was nearly always a play of his 
running at one of the London theatres, and 
he had recently reached the playwright's high- 
water mark by having four plays running at 
the same time- This means money, and it 

was a wonder to 
his friends that 
Neville still re- 
mained unmar- 
ried. But though 
Neville was popu- 
lar as well as pro- 
sperous, he had 
shown no desire 
to take to himself 
a mate, and, with 
a pardonable re* 
sentment, the 
women of his set 
had grown to 
regard him as 
cold and in- 

Possibly their 
estimate was cor- 
rect ; but just as 
possibly the ex- 
planation lay in 
the fact that the 
man was wedded 
to his art. He 
lived for the 
theatre ; and the 
enjoyment he got 
out of his suc- 
cess was not due 
to the money or 
the fame it won for him, but to the actual 
work j which brought him that glow of 
satisfaction which the true artist alone can 
feel He lived very simply and temperately ; 
to perform well the kind of work he did, a 
man requires to be as temperate as the 
acrobat who lightly risks his life on the lofty 
trapeze* At Oxford he had been an athlete 
—there were half a-dozen mugs on a table in 
his smoking-room— and he still kept up his 
fencing and boxing, in the summer used the 
Row, and in the winter rode to hounds. 
He was .atjll . a young man and a good- 
looking .^^'^W'SjS manner to all and 
sundrj?f"Jra courteous* In a 

word, he was a gentleman. 




Punctual to the moment he arrived at the 
Thespis next morning, and was met in the 
vestibule by Malty, who greeted him with 
exaggerated geniality. 

Neville followed the manager on to the 
stage. The girl was seated on a chair by the 
wing, bending over her part. 

" At any rate, she's graceful enough," said 
Neville to himself. " And beautiful," he 
added, as she looked up and rose at their 

"This is Mr. Neville Norris, our great 
* hauthor,' " said Malty, with heavy playful- 
ness. " And this is our new recruit, Miss 

Neville eyed her with veiled scrutiny as 
she gave him her hand, but she met his gaze 
calmly, with that faint smile of self-possession 
which marks the lady. 

" Now, we'll just run through the part," 
said Malty, wagging his head and rubbing his 
big, fat hands. "Just run through it, you 
know. No need to be nervous, Miss Howard. 
Mr. Norris and I are accustomed to make 
allowances. Always a little nervousness on 
a trial spin, eh ? " 

The exhortation appeared to be un- 
necessary, for Miss Howard seemed to be 
quite calm and free from the slightest indica- 
tion of gaucherie. 

" We may as well keep our seats and take 
it comfortably," said Neville. " I'll read Mr. 
Ormsby's part, and you will, of course, take 
Cynthia's. I'll give you your cues plainly and 
we'll take it slowly." 

He read his first lines and waited anxiously 
for her response. At her first word his anxiety 
disappeared, for her voice was not only a 
good but a wonderful one. It had a wide 
register and a contralto tone, which, though 
deep, was clear and bell-like ; she would be 
heard in the very last seats of the pit, which 
provides the most severe of tests. Neville 
had said that they would take it quietly, but 
as they proceeded — he was reading his own 
play, and it was a good one — he warmed to 
his work. He rose and began to take the 
stage, but she remained seated until, with a 
gesture, he commanded rather than invited 
her to rise, and they began to act. 

Then gradually the satisfaction which had 
been roused in him by her voice began to 
cool, for she had not caught fire at his 
enthusiasm — she was not responding. The 
gestures, the business, the emphasis were all 
right, but, most important of all, the spirit 
was lacking. She was like Galatea descended 
from her pedestal — a beautiful statue En- 
dowed wilh a marvellous voice, but speaking 

and moving as a statue would speak and 
move, with infinite grace but without a heart. 

Yes, he said to himself, with a touch of 
bitterness in his disappointment, she was just 

They ran on to the end of the play, and 
Malty accorded them a noisy applause. 

" First-rate ! Beautiful ! Ton my soul 
you were grand, Miss Howard." He did not 
suspect the literal truth of his words. " And 
as for you, Neville, you were magnificent. 
As I've told you a score of times before, you 
ought to have been an actor. Eh, Miss 
Howard ? " 

She smiled, but did not answer the ques- 
tion ; instead she said, very quietly, in the 
softest tones : — 

" I shall do ? You are — pleased ? " 

"Oh, yes; quite pleased," said Neville, 
with a little too much emphasis, but which 
paled its ineffectual fire before Malt/s 
exuberant enthusiasm. 

They passed to the subject of her dresses, 
concerning which she displayed but a calm 
and serene interest ; the hour of the next 
day's rehearsal was fixed, and she departed. 
All the way to his room Malty expressed his 
satisfaction with his new find, pretending not 
to notice Neville's lack of responsiveness; but 
presently he broke out with : — 

" You don't mean to say you don't like 
her— don't think she'll do?" 

Neville took out a cigarette slowly, and 
at last vouchsafed an answer. 

" Frankly, I don't think she will." 

"Why, what's the matter with her?" 
demanded Malty, impatiently -biting off the 
end of a cigar. "She's pretty enough for 
you, I should think." 

"She's a very beautiful girl," said Neville, 
slowly, "and her voice is — good. And she 
moves like a young goddess ; but there's no 
soul in her." 

" Soul be hanged ! " retorted Malty, with a 
snort. " Oh, of course ; I know what you 
mean. But I tell you what it is, Neville. 
The public has been pretty well fed up with 
your soulful women. They're precious sick 
of the upturned eyes and waving arms 
business ; and I don't blame 'em. No, my 
boy, what they like is a lady — a lady who 
talks and walks like a real lady in a real 
drawing-room. There's something restful 
about her, something — oh, dash it, I can't 
describe it, but you know well enough what 
I mean." 

Neville nodded absently. "Yes, I know; 
but thitT-llfeNAcUNIaltogeiher a restful part 
Cynthia is a simple, unsophisticated country 



girl, whose heart has been won by a man who likely woman is engaged I've hunted every- 
doesn't care for her, but wants her to marry where, You want a girl created for you t and 
him for purposes of his own. Miss — what's that's too big an order for me." 
her name?— Miss Howard plays the first act " Oh, very well," assented Neville, reluct- 
well enough, because it happens to suit her — antly ; " but don't blame me if she produces 
it doesn't demand much feeling ; but in the a frost on the first night ; she's cold enough*" 
second act she ha5 to wake up, and in the Neville purposely absented himself from 

third, as you 
know, she has 
to display strong 
emotion. If you 
want me to be 
perfectly candid, 
I tell you that 
Miss Howard 
is incapable of 
doing so," 

"Why?" de- 
manded Malty, 

"I don't 
know," replied 
Neville, with an 
gesture. " Yes, 
I do. She is 
cold, immovable 
— f heartless ' is 
not the word, 
because I sup- 
pose every 
woman has a 
heart, but — it 
will serve* No ; 
the truth is she 
does not know 
that she has a 

Malty was 
silent for a 
moment, gnaw- 
ing at his cigar ; then he glanced at the bent 
head half timidly, half defiantly, and said 
with a little laugh :— 

" Oh, is that all? Well, you teach her, 
Neville, my boy." 

" What ? " said Neville, absently, 

" I said, you teach her/ 1 replied Malty, 
more boldly. "Make love to her, Neville. 
By George, I should think you wouldn't find 
much difficulty! Do a bit of flirting with 
hen It isn't your way, I know — you're as 
cold as an oyster ; but you might make an 
effort on this occasion. My aunt ! I wish I 
had the chance of making love to her." 

" Don't be an idiot, Malty," said Neville, 
not impatiently, but a little wearily. 

41 All right ; but what are we going to do ? 

"the girl was seateu on a chair ky ihk wim;, 


the next three 
rehearsals. He 
was trying to 
buoy himself up 
with Malty's 
assurance that 
Miss Howard 
would "im- 
proved But, on 
the fourth re- 
hearsal, his hope 
was rudely dis- 
pelled She was 
word-perfect, her 
action was ap- 
propriate, too 
appropriate ; but 
she was still the 
Galatea. Orms- 
by, the famous 
jtnnt premier^ 
.* who played the 
lover's part, al- 
most com plained 
to Neville. He 
couldn't "move" 
her, he said, with 
a pathos which 
would have been 
humorous if the 
importance of 
the matter had 
not made Neville 
" And so much depends on her ! " said 
Ormsby, with a sigh that was closely akin to 
a groan ; for this curled darling of our stage 
usually had no difficulty in "moving" the 
women he was acting with* 

"Oh, she'll be all right," said Neville, 

Now, Neville had scarcely spoken to Miss 
Howard during the rehearsals he had attended, 
for there was nothing to say, nothing to find 
fault with, excepting this peculiar incapacity 
of hers to simulate real emotion. But the 
following day he went up to her after they 
had run through, and in his frank, pleasant 
way got into talk with her ; and after the 
others [^pgppe.^egtoed on discussing the 
play anl^M^^Hf™ , Artfully he led her to 

date of the production is fixed ; every talk about herself. She was not at all reticent, 



but told him that she was the only daughter 
of a doctor whose health had broken down, 
and that she had gone on the stage so that 
she might not be a burden to him. 

Her story, told quite simply and without 
any appeal to his sympathy, touched him. 
He asked her jf she would lunch with him 
after next day's rehearsal and go for a drive- 
She accepted at once with the unsuspicious- 
ness of a well-bred girl. He took her to a 
quiet restaurant, and afterwards drove her in 
his spider phaeton to Richmond, through 
Petersham and the Park. 

They had tea at an eminently respectable 
confectioner's ; and she presided with a deft- 
ness and grace which roused in Neville a 
sense of quiet pleasure; all her movements 
were pretty, girlish, .and free from self-con- 
sciousness. He leant back with a subtle air 
of enjoyment to watch her going through the 
simple and ordinary operation of putting on 
her gloves ; her hands were as perfect as her 
face and form. Stimulated by the tea, she 
talked more freely on the homeward way ; it 
was evident that she had formed a definite 
estimate of him and knew that she could 
trust him. She was full of the play ; but 
Neville would not discuss her part with her. 

"Just go your own way," he said. 

He pulled up at the corner of the Blooms- 
bury street where she lived, and she smiled 
at his little display of tact. 

He held her hand as she alighted and, 
perhaps unconsciously, pressed it ; but her 
fingers made no response, and she left him 
with a simple "Thank you, Mr. Norris. I 
have enjoyed it very much." 

"You must come again," he said. 

She met him next day at rehearsal as 
calmly as if he were a mere acquaintance 
from whom she had received a quite ordinary 
kindness, and she went through her part in 
exactly the same statuesque way. Ormsby 
followed Neville out of the theatre. The 
popular actor was evidently in a bad temper ; 
his pre-Raphaelite countenance was darkened 
by a frown, the "soulful" eyes, which had 
penetrated the soft hearts of the stalls and 
dress-circle and fluttered the pit and gallery, 
glowered resentfully. It was not only Miss 
Howard's immovable calm which had upset 
him, but the fact that that calm immovability 
had been displayed not only during the 
rehearsal of her part, but in the face of an 
attempt on his part to make love to her, an 
exhibition of condescension which generally 
met with a ready response from the ladies of 
his acquaintance. 

" Miss Howard's impossible ; and that's 

just it, Norris," he said; " impossible ! There's 
no striking any fire out of her ; you can't get 
her even warm ; she's like a stone. Heaven 
knows, I've tried my very best this morning " 
— he had, indeed — "and she just turns her 
eyes on you as if she wondered what you 
were at. Fm awfully sorry, Norris ; but Fm 
afraid I sha'n't be able to carry on." 

" Oh, nonsense," said Norris, rather impa- 
tiently. " She'll improve ; she'll be all right 
on the night." 

" I think Fve heard that remark before," 
retorted Ormsby, sardonically ; " and my 
experience is that it generally ends in being 
all wrong. Fve never met anyone like her. 
I tell you she's having a bad effect on me ; 
and instead of being all right on the night, I 
shall be as wooden as she is, your play will 
be a frost, and Malty will lose his hair. Of 
course, it doesn't matter to you ; you can 
afford a failure." 

" No, I can't," said Neville, curtly. " But 
don't you lose your hair. It will all come 
right. Miss Howard is so beautiful " 

"Oh, she's beautiful enough," broke in 
Ormsby, with a sudden flush; "and if you 
were going to start a living-picture show 
she'd suit you down to the ground ; but " 

"'But me no buts,'" said Neville, with 
forced lightness. " We shall pull through all 

But though he endeavoured to reassure 
Ormsby, Neville felt anxious. What could 
he do? Hints were of no use. Once or 
twice he had suggested, in a casual way, that 
she should put a little more of herself into 
the second act. She had taken the hints 
with unmoved serenity and had evidently 
tried to obey them, and, as obviously, had 

A day or two later he took her out again ; 
they went up Hampstead way this time. But 
though Neville had resolved to avail himself 
of the opportunity to talk to her very plainly 
about her lack of warmth, somehow he found 
it impossible to do so ; she had probably got 
used to him by this time, and she talked and 
laughed as freely as a young girl out for a 
holiday. And what man with a heart in hi? 
bosom could lecture a young girl out for a 
holiday? Besides, Neville felt that he, too, 
was holiday - making ; as he climbed the 
hills and drove across the Heath, his usually 
grave face took to itself smiles, he bandied 
little jests with her, listened with an uncon- 
scious sympathy to little snatches of 
reminiscences. He prolonged the drive 
until the dusk stole upon them ; it was early 
in the season, and the evening grew cool; 



he glanced at her jacket, and it seemed to 
him too thin for the change of temperature. 

" You haven't got enough on," he said. 
11 There's a light coat of mine under the seat. 
Better get it out and sling it round you. 
Yes ; get it out and put it on, please," as she 
demurred. " I can't afford to have you 
catch cold." 

" I sha'n't catch cold," she said, with a little 
laugh ; " but I'll put it on if you wish." 

She fumbled under the seat, and he moved 
the reins to his right hand and bent down to 
help her. In doing so his face touched hers. 
Hers was glowing with youth and the fresh 
air, and the contact sent a warm thrill through 
him. He glanced at her out of the tail of 
his eyes, and saw that a dash of colour had 
come into her face as she put her arm up to 
set her hat straight. 

" I'm sorry ! " he said, in a low voice. 
"Here, let me help you with the coat." 

" I can do it, thanks," she said ; but he 
drew it round her, and was conscious that 
his action was almost like an embrace. For 
one instant he was smitten by the desire to 
draw her close, very close, to him ; but, as 
has been remarked, Neville was a gentleman, 
and he checked the impulse, breathing a sigh 
of relief at his resistance of temptation. 
Indeed, just at this moment his horses re- 
quired all his attention, for the near one was 
young and a little flustered by the lights 
which had now sprung up. Neville tried to 
soothe the restive animal with a word or two 
and a soft stroke of the lash, but it refused 
to be reassured, and, suddenly rearing as 
far as the chain would permit, it came down 
with a snort and bolted. They were going 
downhill, and the spider phaeton, one of 
the lightest, swayed somewhat dangerously. 

" Sit tight," said Neville. 

She laughed in response, and, glancing at 
her, he saw that she was not at all frightened. 
The other horse had now become upset, and 
they were both going at a rather dangerous 
speed. Suddenly they came upon a motor- 
car. The younger animal, regarding its 
presence as a direct insult, tried to stop, and 
was nearly over on its side ; so also was the 
spider. Instinctively, Neville flung his left 
arm round the girl and held her; he could 
do so safely, for he had the horses well in his 
right hand. As he pulled them up opposite 
a lamp his arm was still round Mary, and, 
with a little laugh of approval, he pressed 
her to him. 

" You've plenty of pluck," he said. 

As he spoke he looked at her. Her face 
■•vas deeply flushed, her eyes were downcast, 

her under-lip was quivering. Amazed, and 
smitten by complex emotion, he withdrew his 
arm slowly. It was not fear that had brought 
that flush to her face, weighted her eyelids, 
set her lips trembling. What then? Had 
Galatea awakened? Was it he who had 
called the statue to life ? The thought sent 
the blood racing through his veins ; he stared 
straight in front of him, not daring to look 
at her. 

They drove on steadily enough now, and 
for a time silently. It was as if their recent 
danger, their brief but close contact, had 
revealed each to the other ; for the first time 
his nearness to her filled him with a subtle 
delight. He listened to her soft breathing 
as one listens to hushed music ; he longed to 
touch her, to speak to her, to whisper 
" I love you." But, with infinite effort, he 
repressed the longing, for he feared that 
the three words would transform the living 
woman by his side to a statue again. And 
he did not want her to go back. At last he 
managed to utter some commonplace, some- 
thing that should have made her laugh ; but 
instead of answering promptly, serenely, as 
she would have done an hour ago, it seemed 
as if she had some difficulty in finding her 
voice ; and the laugh was only a smile, and 
that a wavering one. 

He would have thought that he had 
offended her, but there was no indication of 
offence in her voice, in the expression of her 
downcast face. Was she actually — shy ? 
The thought sent another thrill through him, 
for shyness would mean so much in her*4 

" Jimmy has behaved so badly this evening 
that he doesn't deserve you should come 
out with him again. But you will, will you 
not ? " he said, as they reached her corner. 

" I — I don't know," she faltered, standing 
on the edge of the pavement, and still with 
downcast eyes. li I am not afraid, if that is 
what you mean ; but I shall have to work 
hard now ; the time is growing short Good 
night, and — thank you very much." 

He held her hand as if loath to let her go^ 
but she drew it away from him quickly, and, 
with an upward glance of the eyes that were 
now violet — a swift, grave glance — she turned 
and left him. 

As Neville drove to his rooms he knew 
that something had happened to him, and he 
knew what it was — he had fallen in love with 
Mary Howard. When such a man as Neville 
loves, he loves passionately. He wanted the 
girl more intensely than he had ever wanted 
anythtW^IAHAlUfelhffi'fi.SlTXvith his old briar 
clenched in his teeth he paced up and down 



the room into the small hours. Yes, he loved 
her. Would she love him, marry him ? Had 
that sudden blush, the downcast eyes, the 
quivering lip, meant anything ? 

He waited for the next day's rehearsal with 
furious impatience, wondering how she would 
greet him. With a leap of the heart, he saw 
as he approached her that the colour stole to 
her face, that she seemed to hold her breath 
and to pause before she responded to his 
commonplace, "Good morning. I hope you 
are none the worse for our little misadventure 
last night ? " 

" No," she said, in a low voice and without 
a smile, "I was not frightened; I am not 

Ormsby, who had been standing at one of 
the wings talking to the low comedian, but 
glancing sullenly at Neville and Mary Howard, 
crossed over to them. 

"Can't we begin?" he said, abruptly. 
" I've got an appointment " 

" Certainly," replied Neville, with a start. 

The rehearsal commenced. Was it his 
fancy ? Neville asked himself, or was she 
really acting with some feeling ? He looked 
up from his copy at her and caught Ormsby's 
eye fixed on her with an expression of sur- 
prise and dawning gratification. Yes, she 
was playing differently ; her statuesque calm 
was melting ; she faltered once or twice, the 
colour rose and fell in her face, her eyelids 
seemed heavy, her eyes were dark, the 
hitherto rhythmic motions of her glorious 
arms were broken by naturalness. Neville's 
heartbeat fast as he watched her. Suddenly 
she stopped dead short, glanced at him 
almost piteously, and said : — 

" I'm — I'm sorry ! I've forgotten my part." 

Neville rose and went to her instantly. 

" You're tired," he said. " Oh, pray don't 
apologize. y It was the first time— you have 
been wonderful ! " 

" We'll knock off," said Malty, hovering 
round her fussily. " Look here, Miss Howard, 
I know what you want ; you want a good big 
glass of port. Hi ! one of you, go to my 
room and fetch a black bottle ■" 

She shook her head. "No, thank you," 
she said, quietly. "If we're not going to do 
any more I think I should like to go home. 
I am sorry. But I shall be quite well 

Neville waited until she had left the place ; 
then he went after her, slowly at first, but 
quickly enough when he was out of sight of 
the others. 

u Let me come with you," he said. 

She stopped for a moment, then she 

walked on beside him. She was calm and 
self-possessed, but her exquisitely-formed 
brows were drawn together as if she were 
troubled and faintly perplexed. 

"Are you better?" he asked. "It was 
hot and stuffy in there. Don't you think it 
would be as well if you kept in the open air 
for a little while? Look here; let's cross 
over to the Temple Gardens." 

She made no response, but went with him 
to that spot of green which is hallo w r ed by 
memories which Englishmen will cherish for 
ever. The place was empty. Neville made 
for the seat which has been consecrated by 
lovers for ages past ; and she leant back with 
her hands folded over her part, and looked 
before her with her brows still drawn, her lips 
still drooping at the corners in a way he had 
never noticed before. 

A great wave of tenderness swept over 
him ; it is in the moment of a woman's 
weakness, physical or spiritual, that she 
appeals most irresistibly to the man who 
loves her, and in this moment Neville's one 
great longing was to express his tenderness, 
his sympathy, by a touch of the hand ; but 
he had to repress the desire, for he was not 
sure of her yet, and he was more than ever 
afraid lest he should — no, not startle her, for 
Mary was not the girl to be startled — but 
make her cold again. Presently she drew a 
long sigh, a faint colour rose to her face, 
and she turned her eyes upon him almost 
shyly, meekly. 

" I am giving you a great deal of trouble," 
she said. " I have spoilt the rehearsal, and 
taken you away " 

" That's all right," he said, with a laugh. 
" It's very evident that you are new to the 
business — that you don't know the rules 
which govern the conduct of a prima donna. 
Why, you've not been late at rehearsal once, 
you have not fainted, you have not even 
quarrelled with me and poor Malty, and, 
most astonishing of all, you have not insisted 
upon my re-writing your part and allowing you 
to take the centre of the stage nearly all the 
time you are on. This remissness of yours 
has sometimes made me quite uncomfortable, 
and I should really be obliged if you could 
put on a few ajrs and make yourself a bit of 
a nuisance. You'd seem more human." 

She laughed the low, soft laugh which 
Neville heard when he was far away from 
hep, when he was riding in the Park, in the 
silence of his rooms. 

" At any rate, I am human enough to be 
grateful to you for all your kindness to me. You 
have been so different from what I — expected." 



" Ah, I know. You formed your ideas of 
a dramatic author from books, in which he 
is generally represented as a bounder, a bully, 
and a holy terror. You're looking better. 
Now, I prescribe a little turtle soup, a glass 
of dry sherry, and a French roll ; and I know 
the place where we can get it to perfection. 
Come along ! " 

She hesitated, and murmured a protest, 
but he laid his hand upon her arm — he had 
managed to touch her at last — and, with a 
smile, she let him take her to a restaurant. 
It was a good prescription ; it dispelled her 
nervousness, the traces of her inexplicable 
breakdown, and she was soon laughing that 
soft laugh of hers in response to Neville's 
extremely successful efforts to amuse her and 
dispel her remorse. He walked with her to 
the familiar corner, and she allowed her 
hand to linger in his for a longer time than 
she had hitherto permitted it 

She went straight to her room and took 
her things off slowly, looking at the reflection 
of her face in the glass ; her cheeks were 
still flushed, the light that had made her eyes 
shine like stars in the restaurant was still 
glowing in them ; they grew dreamy, her lips 
parted with a shy smile, and she turned 
away as if she were ashamed of some 
revelation made by lips and eyes. 

As for Neville, he went back to the Temple 
Gardens and flung himself on the seat. It 
had been hard work for him to refrain from 
telling her that he loved her — not only for 
the reason which has been stated, but because, 
if she refused him, of the effect the affair 
would have upon her work. No ; he must 
wait until after the momentous first night. 

She came to the next rehearsal apparently 
quite recovered, and, to the continued amaze- 
ment of Ormsby, displayed still greater feeling 
than she had done on the previous day. He 
was not only amazed, but much gratified. 
To say that Ormsby was vain would convey 
no censure or reproach, for what human 
being could retain his modesty through such 
an ordeal of adulation and admiration as 
that to which the poor fellow was constantly 
subjected not only on the stage but off it ? 

Yesterday he was half-inclined to sifspect 
that his all-conquering presence and potent 
charm had begun to tell upon the apparently 
impregnable Mary Howard ; to-day he was 
quite certain that they had produced their 
usual effect, and he displayed this conviction 
by the tenderness of the tone in which he 
addressed her, and by the tilt of his hand- 
some head as he watched her from the side 

Yes ; it was evidently another conquest, 
another feminine scalp; and this time his 
heart was stirred by something warmer than 
vanity, for Mary's coldness and irresponsive- 
ness to his advances, which had piqued him 
at first, had latterly stirred him with 
something like a genuine passion. It was 
time he was married. He certainly could not 
find a more beautiful and, he added to him- 
self, a more profitable wife. In his mind's 
eye he already saw himself in that most 
desirable of positions, that of an actor- 
manager, starring with his wife, Miss Mary 

The rehearsals were now growing serious. 
The new play had been puffed and para- 
graphed in Malty's best and most effectual 
manner ; it had been delicately hinted to the 
public that the Thespis had secured in its 
new leading actress a marvel second only to 
Sarah Bernhardt herself; in short, the public 
curiosity had been gently tickled, irritated 
rather, to fever-point. 

And as the days went on, while Ormsby 
was making love with dulcet tones and 
eloquent glances, Neville was surrounding 
her, so to speak, with an aura of pure and 
true love, which he expressed in those un- 
obtrusive attentions which cost men so little, 
but which mean so much to women. 
Nearly every day he took her to the quiet 
restaurant, assuring her when she hesitated 
that it was merely a selfish act on his part, 
for, if she did not accompany him, his own 
lunch would consist of a dry sherry and 
biscuit, a combination as deleterious as tea 
and bun. 

The dress rehearsal arrived, and for the 
first time Neville saw her in woman's war- 
paint, an evening frock and coiffure ; and the 
sight of her in her feminine splendour made 
his heart bound and his pulse throb ; indeed, 
the whole company was impressed, not to say 
startled, by the exquisite beauty of her face 
and form, accentuated by her attire. As for 
Malty, he was in ecstasies, and Neville had 
to grip him by the arm to restrain him from 
some genuine but embarrassing exclama- 
tions, for Mary was playing with a grace and, 
above all, with a feeling which simply 
astounded her fellow-actors. 

Immediately after the rehearsal Neville 
went up to her. His face was very grave, his 
eyelids were lowered. He was afraid to let 
her see his eyes ; his voice sounded almost 
harsh as he said : — 

" Come away at once, please ! I have a 
cab for you. No ; you must not stay," he 
added, almost sternly, as Malty came rushing 



up, followed by the call-boy with champagne. 
"And no champagne, please, Malty* To- 
morrow night, if you like. Come, Miss 

As Malty stepped back he chuckled and 
grimaced at Neville as if in recognition of 
his gallantry; but Neville did not notice this 
by- play. Obediently, she let him take her 
to the cab. He 
put her in and, 
almost unconsci- 
ously, drew her 
cloak more closely 
round her. 

"You will go to 
bed at once ! " he 
said, " Do not 
look at your part ; 
don't think of it 
even ; just go to 
bed and get to 
sleep as soon as 
possible* I want 
you to be quite 
fresh to morrow." 

"Very well," 
she said. Her face 
was flushed, the 
beautiful eyes 
sought his ques- 
tioningly* ** Are 
you satisfied? 
Shall I do?" she 
asked, in a low 

His eyes met 
hers with an 
expression that 
caused hers to 
lowen l( Yes, 
you will do," 
he said, rather 
huskily — " if 
you will do as I tell you/' 

41 1 will," she said, almost ihaudibly. 

He held her hand for a moment, and as 
he pressed it he felt it quiver in his. 

When the curtain went down the following 
night, a scent* occurred which was unpre- 
cedented in the annals of the Thespis. 
Somewhat prepared as it had been, the 
audience was taken by surprise The p]ay 
was good, but its excellent qualities were 
almost forgotten in the wondurful per- 
formance of the new actress. She had been 
called after each act; but at the close the 
applause was overwhelming, and the calls for 
her threatened to be interminable Again 
and again Ormsby, who was radiant — h$ 


had played well — led her on, and at every 
appearance the delighted house cheered her. 
Neville never took a call, and did not do 
so on this occasion, though the house roared 
for him and showed some resentment at his 
refusal to appear. But Malty — beaming — 
bounced on to assure them that Mr. Norrls 
was not in the house, but that he would 
convey their kind approval to 
the famous author; and, for 
himself, to thank them for 
their splendid reception of his 
new production and the beauti- 
ful and talented young lady 
whom it had been his pride and 
honour to present to them. 

There was jubilation behind 
the curtain also as her fellow- 
actors and 
gat h e r e d 
round Mary to 
her upon hec 
m agnificent 
success, for 
ihe members 
of "the pro* 
fession " are 
not more en- 
vi o u s and 
jealous, though 
they are popu- 
larly supposed 
to be, than the 
members of 
other callings. 
She was 
touched ; in- 
deed, there 
were tears 
under her lids, 
but she bure 
the good fortune, which most of us find more 
trying than misfortune, very modestly, very 
sweetly,' They were all too good to her, she 
said, and she said it from the heart which at 
first they had denied to her. Yes : she would 
drink a glass of champagne. Be sure, Malty 
had it all ready at the wings ; there was enough 
of it, apparent ly> to supply the cascade in the 
second act. Orrnshy poured out a glass for 
her; then raised his own and, in his inimit- 
able manner, said, in thrilling tones: — 

"To the new goddess t" and when he had 
emptied.tfc.gla^SjflLira all the air of a 

cavalier behind* ■n™J i So J ili!it no lesser toast 
should be drunk from it. 

Neville stood by almost silent, but, need- 



Ow*-£t* fc *-'* >b 


less to say, he was watching the central 
figure closely, and waiting for the moment 
when he could take her away from the 
hubbub and send her home to rest He got 
her away at last to the waiting cab. 

" You are pleased ? " she said " Oh, I 
want to tell you how grateful I am to you, 

but I can't My heart is 
I can't say what I feel" 

With a gesture that intoxicated him, she 
stretched out both her hands to him. 

" I will tell you to-morrow," he said, as he 
grasped the trembling hands, "Will you 
come to the Gardens at twelve o'clock ? J$ 

She looked into his eyes, and her face grew 
like a rose as she murmured, " Yes." 

Neville went back to the theatre. He knew 
that Malty would insist upon making some- 

beating so fast — thing of a night of it, As he went up the 
steep Wftk&KA^-iCAUJ^r's room he heard 
Ormsby's voice. It was raised as if its owner 
were In some kind of a passion. 



" He's a mean, dastardly cur ! " Neville 
heard him shout, in the voice of a man hot 
with anger and smarting with a sense of 
personal injury. 

Neville would have gone down again and 
waited until the storm had passed over ; but 
he was accustomed to Ormsby's fits of 
passion, and, attaching little importance to 
this particular one, he opened the door 
slowly and entered. Malty was seated on 
his table — a half empty champagne glass in 
his hand, a look of discomfort on his fat, red 
face. Ormsby was pacing up and down the 
room furiously, his face white and working. 
At Neville's appearance Malty turned his 
bullet-head, swore under his breath, and very 
nearly dropped the champagne glass ; and 
Ormsby stopped dead short and glowered at 
Neville, who, on his way towards the table 
and the champagne, said, a little too casually 
perhaps : — 

"What's the trouble?" 

Ormsby appeared to be incapable of speech 
for a moment, and Malty, getting off his 
perch rather unsteadily, went round to him, 
and, laying a persuasive hand on his arm, 
said, beseechingly : — 

" Oh, shut up your head, old man ! You've 
lost your hair ; you're half-screwed, that's 
what you are. Don't say^a word ! Here, 
come on home ! I'll go with you ; I want a 
breath of fresh air." 

But Ormsby flung him off and swung round 
to Neville. 

" I will speak ! " he almost shrieked. " I 
should be a worse cur than he if I didn't. 
I say he's a mean, cowardly hound ; that he's 
played a dastardly trick, that he has been 
guilty of a positive outrage on a defenceless 
girl — a lady. I say that a man who would 
do such a thing, take such an advantage, 
ought to be horsewhipped at the cart's tail ! " 

" My dear Ormsby, men are not horse- 
whipped nowadays, however great their 
deserts; and the * cart's tail' disappeared 
ages ago — more's the pity, perhaps," said 
Neville, wearily. " But may I, without intru- 
sion, ask of whom you are speaking ?" 

" You, you confounded prig ! " said Ormsby, 
infuriated by Neville's manner, which, it must 
be admitted, was exasperating in the face of 
the other man's passion. " I'm talking of you 
and to you. I say that you've behaved like 
a cad " 

" Now, Ormsby, dry up," broke in Malty, 
soothingly. " You young fool, you're going 
too far. What I said — well, it doesn't matter 
what I said. You chuck it and go home." 

"Better not," said Neville. "Get it off 

your mind, whatever it is, Ormsby. What is 
the trouble, anyway? What have you told 
him, Malty?" 

Ormsby thrust his head forward in a manner 
peculiar to him when he was greatly excited ; 
the stage-manager had once or twice ventured 
to hint at this little defect. 

" He has told me the whole infernal busi- 
ness," he said, furiously. " How you and he 
planned to deceive Miss — Howard." 

" Hadn't you better leave the lady's name 
out of this business ? " suggested Neville, with 
sudden gravity. " Surely she can have nothing 
to do with it ? " 

"Yes, she has. Look here, Norris, you 
can't fool me with your cursed affectation 
of — of sang-froid. You have deliberately 
deceived her ; you have pretended to be in 
love with her so that she should — should 
throw herself into her part. And you've 
succeeded infernally well." 

Neville poured out a glass of wine and 
held up his hand to keep Malty quiet. 

" You are making a mistake, Ormsby," he 
said very quietly ; too quietly to please Malty, 
who knew that Neville's manner became more 
restrained than usual when he was deeply 

" You can't deny it," stormed Ormsby. 
'* I've heard it from Malty's own lips." 

" Pardon me, I do deny it," said Neville, 
flushing slightly, as he now recalled the 
foolish speech in which Malty had suggested 
that Neville should make love to Miss 
Howard. " And that must close the matter. 
Good night. Good night, Malty." 

He passed out of the room so quickly, so 
quietly, and without hurry, that for a moment 
Ormsby was too staggered to speak or move ; 
but in an instant he recovered and, with an 
oath, he dashed after Neville, and, with a 
cry of " You cur ! " aimed a blow at him. 
Neville was a fairly good boxer, and he 
warded off the blow easily enough, but 
Ormsby sprang on him, and Neville, who 
was on the edge of the first step of the 
stairs, lost his footing and fell, with Ormsby 
on top of him. 

The two men tumbled down the stairs in 
a grotesquely comic fashion, gripping each 
other. But suddenly Neville's grip relaxed, 
and he lay on the mat quite motionless. 
Malty came rushing down the stairs and, 
pushing Ormsby aside, bent over Neville. 

"Heavens! I think you've killed him!" 
he said, thickly. " Run ud for some brandy ! 
Quick, you silly as^ VERS IT Y 

Neville had recovered before Ormsby 
returned, and was leaning against the wall, 




his face white, one arm hanging limply at his 

" I am all right," he said, " I am all right, 
I assure you. Don't make a fuss, Malty. Get 
me a cab. No; I can get it. Go and tell 
Ormsby that I'm not hurt. He's a good 
fellow, and I like him all the better for losing 
his head/* 

But, of course, Malty would not leave him. 
Shouting to Ormsby, who stood on the stairs, 
41 Keep back, you idiot ! " he helped Neville 
into a cab and accompanied him home. 

The doctor said that Neville had broken 
his arm, and, in the doctor's presence, Neville 
abused Malty for not having a gas-jet 
on his confounded landing. Malty caught 
the hint, expressed his misery and remorse, 
and promised to have the light set up that 
very morning* 

When Mary kept her appointment, with a 
punctuality which it is respectfully hoped she 
will follow during the rest of her life, she 
waited for an hour ; then, with a disappoint- 
ment to which she was fully entitled, returned 
to her rooms. She did not doubt Neville's 
love ; he had been detained, that was all> she 
told herself, with a sigh, When she arrived 
at the theatre in the evening, half an hour 

before the performance, she found Mr. 
Ormsby pacing up and down the vestibule. 
He was very pale and evidently agitated, and, 
with a broken apology, he led Mary to the 
little ante-room. 

" I have something I must say to you, Miss 
Howard," he said. ** I fear you think I am 
abrupt; but — Miss Howard, will you be my 
wife? I am very much in love with you, and 
■ — and — 1 feel for you, sympathize with you 
in this cruel business, but 1 don't want to say 
anything about that t Will you be my wife ? " 

Mary's surprise was too great to admit of 
blushing ; her lovely eyes regarded him w T ith 
amazement, and at last she said : — 

*' Oh, Im sorry ! I did not know. Please 
don't speak. I want to tell you at once that 
I am— that I can't * 

(( I know what you w + ere going to say," he 
broke in, with increased agitation. "But 
you have been deceived ; you have been 
treated most cruelly. He has taken advan- 
tage of your ignorance of the world— of his 
character. He has played you a mean and 

" uel j^N/^iyEpRjv worth y of t a " oth ?r 

thought ; forget that he ever existed. It 
was a trick arranged by Mr. Malt ravers 
and him/* 



" I don't understand. Who ? " said Mary, 
growing pale. 

Ormsby bit his lip. "I didn't want to 
mention his name. Of course I'm speaking 
of Mr. Norris. I discovered the truth last 

" Discovered ? 1 do not know what you 
mean. Will you tell me plainly, quite 
plainly, Mr. Ormsby ? " she said. 

Reluctantly, shamefacedly, indignantly, 
Ormsby told his story. Neville Norris had 
been making love to her with the cruel 
intent to rouse her feelings, to touch her 
heart, so that she might play more effectively 
in his cursed comedy. He finished at last, 
out of breath, and waited for a response from 
her. He expected her to burst into tears 
or a torrent of language expressive of her 
indignation and resentment. But she neither 
cried nor spoke. She looked straight before 
her for a a moment, her face very pale, her 
lips set, and then the colour stole to her face 
and she smiled — not at Mr. Ormsby, not at 
anything in particular. It was an inscrutable, 
a heavenly smile, that lent her face an infinite 
softness, tenderness ; and it so staggered 
Ormsby that he stood and stared at her with 
his beautiful mouth wide open. Then, before 
he could recover from his stupor, she moved 
away, without even a glance at him. 

Her dresser opened the door of her room 
for her and greeted her with an exclamation 
of trouble and anxiety. 

" Oh, miss, isn't it dreadful ? " she gasped. 
" Mr. Norris fell down the back stairs last 
night and 'as broke his arm." 

Mary sat down and began to change her 

"Tell me," she said, after a moment 
or two. 

The woman told the story as she knew it, 
and Mary saw the truth of the matter in 
a flash. Ormsby and Neville had quarrelled, 
had fought, and Neville had been injured. 
She was silent for a while, trying to decide 
what she should do. Presently she asked if 
her understudy was in the theatre ; but she 
did not send for her. At all costs, she, Mary, 
must stand by his play. She was ready for 
her call, and went on and played. They said 
that she was not so good as on the preceding 
night, but admitted that the slight falling-off 
was only natural ; second nights were always 
tame ; and, besides, no doubt Miss Howard 
was upset by the accident to Mr. Norris. 

But she got many calls and recalls at the 

fall of the curtain, and when at last she 

returned to her dressing-room and changed, 

she said to her dresser : — 

• " Put on your things, Mrs. Brown ; I want 

you to come with me. I'm going to see Mr. 


The woman was used to the whims and 
fancies of leading ladies, and obeyed without 
comment, but with a sidelong glance at the 
pale face. 

Neville's man answered the door, and he, 
too, was accustomed to the erratic motions 
of theatrical stars, and therefore displayed no 
surprise at the visit and the lateness of the 

" Mr. Norris is going on very well, miss," 
he said. " He has been sleeping most of 
the day, but he's awake now. Yes, miss, I'll 
ask him. Will you step in here, please? " 

After five minutes, which seemed five 
hours to Mary, the man returned and silently 
escorted her to the sick-room. She paused 
a moment outside the door and pressed her 
hands to her heart ; then she went in softly. 
Neville was sitting up in bed, a dressing- 
gown thrown round him, his arm strapped 
across his chest. He looked pale, of course. 
He held out his left hand with one word : — 

" Mary ! " 

She sank on her knees beside the bed and 
pressed his hand against her bosom as she 
had pressed her own a moment ago. 

"Oh, Neville!" she breathed, her lips 

" It's all right, dearest, " he said, with a 
smile. " I was going to write to you, to send 
you a message— but somehow I knew you 
would come. And you have come. You 
have heard — I can see it by your face." She 
made a quick, swift motion with her head, 
as if putting the matter aside; but he was 
insistent. "You did not believe it, Mary? " 

A smile broke over her face, made 
dazzlingly radiant her eyes ; the smile grew 
into a laugh, tender, caressing. 

" How could I ? " she whispered. Then 
her eyes filled. " Your arm, Neville ? " 

" Yes, it's broken," he said, cheerfully ; 
" but if you had believed me guilty of what 
they said it would have broken my heart. 
. . . Dear, I can't kiss you from where I am. 
Come nearer." 

She rose and bent over him, put her arm 
round him, and drew his head to her bosom, 
and, holding him thus, her face drooped 

lovver a ^MiWittM ps met his - 



' M 


Wl-o died it the ase of one 
hundred and nsly-nme, 


Old Man 

A Project for a Novel Newspaper, 
ana Some cr Its Contents. 


W ho dird At <hr Age of one 
hundred mud fifty- two. 

LT HOUGH there Is a very 
prevalent opinion that this 
is, par excel knee ^ the age of 
Youth, the era of the Young 
Man, it is curious that at no 
time in the history of the 
world have men over sixty 

played so prominent and vigorous a part in 

its affairs. Take whatever department of 

human effort you please — war, politics, 

finance, literature, art — who are the men 

who are doing the most and the best work ? 

The men of sixty or the men of thirty? A 

glance at the names of the leading financiers 

of the world, the 

leading soldiers, 

the leading states- 
men, even the 

leading writers 

and painters, is 

sufficient to 

answer the ques- 

It is for this 

reason that this 

class of men — 

those past sixty s 

who feel that they 

are still full of 

ideas and vigour 

— should have an 

organ of their own. 

There is a journal 

called The Young 

Man* Why not, 

then, The Old 

Man ? 

With the idea 

of ascertaining 

how such a paper 

would look and 

how it would be 

received, we have 

gone to work 

Wnt mb Jttan. 

Smectvi cum tndailwta aSfh* Judicium Firmmt 

Edited by BODHEY PHILLIP*. M.A. 

rwt a not tQt>fiKH$f> »r run rorr*c tr n nvtro er tir* ou>. 


U-iw. M*f j*>. iji i 


turl!..! iy. 

and Id religion 

la Diners m*>re | 


exactly as if we were about to publish a. first 
number We have drawn up a prospectus 
and title-cover, and have invited contributions 
and opinions from many well- known and repre- 
sentative u oId men " now living. The result 
will be found in the following pages. 

u We object to being laid on the shelf. 
We cannot admit all the absurd preten- 
sions to exclusive merit of men whose 
fathers 1 cradles we rocked." The fore- 
going is an extract from an article entitled 
4i Is Youth Infallible?" by Mr. Robert 
Martin, of Liverpool, the inventor of the 

gas stove, now in 
his eighty-seventh 
year, but still hale 
and vigorous. It 
might well serve 
as the motto of 
the paper, which, 
however, has 
several mottoes, 
some of them, as 
well as many of 
the articles, by 
men distinguished 
for years or brains, 
or both. 

It was not so 
long ago tf hat we 
were told that a 
man w T as useless 
after sixty — that 
he was incapable 
of further great 
achievement, and 
might, for all the 
good he could do 
in the world, just 
.£S well enter the 
"Sixty is the age 
limit of useful- 

c heSI and happieu period of my life dates hum my wstieth 

W. E Gladstone. 

Though 1 am growing oLd. I maintain that the belt part u nil] 
lo come— the time when une may *ee thing* more dispatsiunately and 
blow OftneJf And others more Iruty, and |^rh,i« be atjfe to do natee ; 

.^fc. imp*, wi-Png i naTfronr 

B »,.ifcllMAH.mMt:yER!;iT , Qhri 



ness," said Professor Osier ; 
"a man has done his work at 
sixty, and is thereafter a negli 
gible quantity* 31 Could any- 
thing be more fantastic than 
tlii& Dpi n i on no wad ays ? The re 
is more than one public man 
who, like Lord Strathcona, if 
he had died at sixty, would 
have been absolutely unknown 
to fame. Lord Stratheona 
may be said to have begun his 
Imperial renown at seventy- 
five. At ninety he is at his 
office daily at ten o'clock, and 
after working diligently all day 
attends on an average three 
public banquets or dinner- 
parties a week, and is often 
not in bed before i a.m. 
William de Morgan was sixty- 
five before he thought of 
writing novels* Pierpont 
Morgan was the same age 
before he thought of his 
colossal scheme of finance. 
Mr, Chamberlain was sixty- 
five before he suggested tariff 
reform. Earl Roberts was 
nearly seventy when he was 
sent out to supersede the 
young generals and retrieve 
disaster in South Africa. 
"Had I died at threescore 
years and ten," said Glad- 
stone, " fully half my life-work would have 
remained undone." 

There is no fact more striking than the 
way modern life is push- 
ing back the period of 
old age. Less than a 
century ago a man was 
old at forty. You have 
only to pick up Jane 
Austen's novels to find 
gentlemen of thirty -five 
described as middle-aged. 
At sixty they were gab- 
bling in their dotage. 
And there is Mr, Pick- 
wick — that dear, delight- 
ful, benevolent old gentle- 
men of forty- five !— just 
seven years younger than 
Mr* George Alexander, 
and five years younger 
than that leading juvenile, 
Mr. Lewis Waller ! 

Fifty years ago, when 

Still in full work fti ninety, 


Who beffftn wititm novel* at *iity-tve. 
By kind pa miwwn q/ W. Ilfiiitniaim, Evi. 

a man reached the age of forty- 
five he grew a beard under his 
chin, bought himself a pair of 
drab gaiters and a white neck- 
cloth, and spoke with anxious 
concern of the rising genera- 
tion , whose manners were so 
different from those he had 
known as a "young man/' 
Nowadays the popular notion 
of irresponsible, irrepressible 
youth is illustrated by Mr, 
Lloyd George, who is forty- 
seven. In our generation forty- 
seven is outwardly indistin- 
guishable from twenty-seven, 
save in that the former has a 
slightly more youthful tint in 
its cheek and its waistcoat. 
Is Mr. Seymour Hicks twenty 
or forty ? Is Mr. Henry Ainley 
forty or twenty ? Who — even 
the most enthusiastic matinee 
girl _ cares ? The juvenile 
Lord Althorp is fifty-three ; 
Mr Hay den Coffin will soon 
celebrate his half century. Is 
not the very thought ludicrous 
that they should grow whiskers 
either under or above their 
chins? And as for drab 
gaiters and white chokers, 
one's sense of propriety revolts 
at the idea. 

As for the fair sex, the 
genus old lady is all but extinct. The pretty, 
vivacious matron you admire at a garden- 
party may have seen twenty-five or seventy 
summers. As Queen 
Alexandra not long since 
said to Mme, Adelina 
Patti : tl We two are two 
of the youngest women in 
England." The illustrious 
Royal example has been 
so sedulously followed 
that the ladies — always 
young, always active, 
always in the height of 
Fashion— may be said to 
laugh in the very face of 
Father Time* 

"It seems to me," writes 
the Poet laureate, "that 
youth is the age of rash, 
manhood of effective, 
HMUNJUBRfillY later years, that 
of observant experience 


Who thought of Hi* great jthetnenf finance *t visty-five. 



But certain others— as, for example, Sir 

Frederick Young, K.CM.G. hold that later 

years may also be those of effective action. 

Sir Frederick, the father and one of the 

founders of the Royal Colonial 


" I have lived in six reigns/* 

writes Sir Frederick Young, 

in the [>ages of The Oid 

Man, u I remember a journey 

of three days on the top of a 

coach to Newcastle, when my 

father was elected M.P. for 

Tynemouth* I was present at 

Westminster Ahbey at the 

Coronation of William IV,, on 

September 8th, 1831, and I 

treasure the recollection of 

many historic events, My life 

has been devoted to the cause 

of Imperial Federation. I want 

the whole Empire to be united 

politically, and that is my creed 

at the present day, I want a 

great Imperial Parliament, with 

meetings in whatever city may 

be the centre of the Empire. 

There are the strongest of 

reasons, of course, why it should be London ; 

but Canada, for instance, is very go-ahead, 

and it is not impossible that Canada should 

produce some day our greatest city. Or it 

may be Australia, I have seen things move 

so marvellously that anything 

may happen." 

Then there is an article by 

Mark Twain on " Old Age "— 

one of the last things the genial 

humorist wrote, l( I am an old 

man," he remarks, " so old that 

the thought of being as old as 

I am now would once have 

filled me with wonder, It 

doesn't fill me with wonder 

any more, I don't know that 

I have any sensations about 

my age, except envy. It is a 

mean thing to say, when I can 

boast of having actually lived 

seventy odd years myself (with 

the doctor and my family to 

help me), that I should covet 

the years of other people. 

But it is a fact> and the 

reason is that, although I like to brag about 

being old, other people are so much older 

that it makes me ridiculous." The humorist 
hen goes on to tell of Methuselah and Old 
?arr and other celebrities, whose " staying H 

Institute, is Professor J 

SIR hkhlJfcKlCK VOU KG, 

Who write* a most interest ma leiicr to 

" The Old Mftiar ii ninety-three. 

From a Photo, hit If null if FuX. 

a language by 

turn fatuous 

Greek, Latin, 


Who 11 now preparing an improved Lai 
Primer, ii mrhly-nve'. 
Prom a Photo v M EUioU «± Pr v . 

powers are perfect gall and wormwood to a 
man whose other accomplishments having 
failed is trying to get up a reputation by 
being old. 

E, B. Mayor, at eighty-five, 
who " never took exercise for 
its own sake," contributes to 
The Old Man a delightful 
account of bis present employ- 
ments, from which the follow- 
ing may be quoted : — 

"I still read all day long. 
My eyes never tire of reading 
the smallest print ; my hearing 
is still keen ; I can read aloud 
for five or six hours in the day 
—an exercise which {like Pliny 
and Celsus and John Wesley) 
I regard as very conducive to 

" What knowledge I have of 
foreign languages I have 
acquired for myself. I have 
made many mistakes* The 
whole notion of * grounding' 
beginners in 
making them 
English into 
German, or what not that cannot be other 
than fatuous, is false* Ollendorff, Kerchever 
Arnold, and their whole rabble must be cut 
off root and branch. I am making a First 
Latin Reader, which will contain many 
English proverbs, many fine 
lines of English, rendered into 
Latin iambics and trochaics. 
In the sixteenth century and 
later these easy metres were 
used for paraphrases of Scrip- 
ture, which served as text- 
books in schools. Far better 
than harping on Balbus and 
his w + all is turning such a line 
as Byron's — 

Wax to receive and marble to 
into the octonarius, 

Ad expi Jmanrfam cera, m arm or 
ad tenendum i niacin em ; 

or Dryden's — 

The worlds an inn, and life the 
journey's end, 
into the trochaic — 

Fin is viae mors, vitadeversarium ; 
or the proverb — 
A good horse often needs a good spur, 

into the trQfB^from 

Sir Hiram Maxim writes to The Oid Man: 
" It is a mistake to class me as an old man. 



I am not old at all. I am quite willing to 
admit, however, that the majority of mankind 
that were born in the year 1840 may be con- 
sidered old. In fact, I have met a good 
many of them, and I have often remarked 
that the year 1840 must have been a bad 
year for men, as I find that nearly everyone 
I meet born in that year is old. It is quite 
true that I have been in the world seventy 
years, and I have been told by a good many 
of my associates, whose opinions certainly 
ought to be worth something, that if 1 had 
been a drinking man, gone on an occasional 
booze, and used tobacco plentifully, I might 

have been 
at least ninety 
years old by this 
time. I have 
had so much 
work to do in 
my lifetime that 
I have not had 
time to grow 
old- When I was 
a boy they used 
to say, ' Hiram 
is a good boy 
to work ; he is 
very industri- 
ous/ Well, I 
went on for 
years, working 
harder and 
old harder every 
year, keeping at 
it, not wasting 
a moment of time — in fact, feeling guilty 
unless I was at work — and finally I made a 
lot of money. It was then that her ladyship 
suggested that I had better let up a bit, but I 
found that I could not stop, It was the Inertia 
of mass ; it has been going so long and so 
fast that it refused to halt ; so I am still at it, 
as busy as a bee, and at the present moment 
I see very little chance of being able to stop/' 
Art in The Old Man is represented by Mr. 
B« W. Leader, R.A., who writes: "Although 
I am in my eightieth year I feel the same 
enthusiasm for my art as I did when a young 
man, I think my contributions to this year's 
Academy prove that my powers have not 
deteriorated. I might mention that many 
artists did some of their best work in their 
old age; Corot, for instance, painted two of 
his finest pictures the year of his death, when 
he was seventy-nine ; and Titian, one of the 
world's greatest artists, was at work on his 
last and celebrated picture, 'Pieta/ when he 
died at the great age of ninety- eight," 


Wbo is m:% rni y, Hvi be is not 

Prmn a Photo- bv Husvll £ Svum 

Of old age 
I)r, Alfred 
Russel Wallace 
observes that 
it is merely a 
normal state. 
There is no 
reason why we 
should have 
less appetite for 
the last course 
of Life's feast 
than we had 
for the first. 
Each is so 
different. Dr. 

Wallace is in his eighty eighth year, and is 
still one of the master-minds of the English- 
speaking world. Perhaps his greatest work, 
"Man's Place in the Universe," did not 
appear until he was eighty. 

There is only one survivor of ihs founders 
of the Pre-Raphaelite Brotherhood now alive, 
and that is Mr. William Holman Hunt, now 
in his eighty-fourth year. Yet he is still 
vigorous and still able to paint and to write; 
as his recently-published book on the l\ R,B. 
amply testifies. 

A far older veteran is Dean Gregory of 
St. Paul's, who is in his ninety-second year 

MR. H. W, LEADER, R + A* 

At eighty he feels ihe. lame, enthusiasm 

fat art &* when he wa» a young man. 

Frvtit a Pkotv. kg S. H. Mill*. 


Who ii eighty-seven. *ayi old nae \t *' merely a norma] title," 

IVvm >r Photo, by tendon Strr&nxvpk Co. 

"The Church," says Dean Gregory, "must 
be favourat^e: to longevity, as well as to 
prolific faiml^^ olive-branches 

seem to tfe" comnioriiskr 1 in the parsonages, 
deaneries, and even our episcopal palaces." 
The Dean ascribes his longevity to plain living 



and hard working — also in- 
separable from the Church, 

Another feature in The Old 
Man is the report of a chat 
with the oldest living Red 
Indian chief, Wolf Robe, who, 
in his hundredth year, still 
boasts of his friendship for 
Mr, Roosevelt, whom he 
remembers visiting him on the 
Reserve on his eightieth birth- 
day. When this chief was 
asked the secret of his long 
life he responded: "Have a 
good time, but don't have him 
too good That's all/' 

Mr Thomas Hardy at 
seventy was only aware of the 


Sull painiim and writing at eiahty-ihree. 
Fra*n a /'JMo, bv RwueU it Sohm. 

that I live in grand style and 
am amassing a large fortune 
out of the gifts of poor and 
deluded people, that I live in 
a magnificent riiansion and 
drive about in a costly motor- 
car, and never eat or drink 
except out of a silver dish with 
a golden spoon. I have never 
taken a shilling from the Salva- 
tion Army funds for my own 
personal support since its com- 
mencement, and have never 
gone out in loaned or hired 
motors except when visiting 
poor lost people/' 

Lord Roberts — Britain's 

IJEAX (ikKciOkV. 

Still a hard worker at nin 

^rvm a Photo, fcy hllioit A Fry, 

fact that he was an old man 
by the shoals of congratula- 
tions that recently poured 
in upon him. Yet he is 
now meditating an entirely 
new departure in intellectual 
work ; his vigour shows no 
sign of abating and his 
originality almost seems to 
increase with years. 

There is an interview in 
Tfw Old Man with General 
Booth, in which he says : — 

'* It has been said that I 
am proud, haughty, and 
despotic, trampling upon the 
feelings of those placed 
under my guidance. The 
critics, however, neglect to 
say how thousands of all 
nationalities and classes 
eagerly go to the uttermost 
parts of the earth at my bid 
ding. It has been alleged 


greatest Gene- 
ral since Wel- 
lington — after 
forty years' 
service in India, 
had returned to 
England, ap- 
parently to 
spend his latter 
days in retire- 
ment, In his 
sixty-eigh t h 
year there came 
the news that 
the Army sent 
to South Africa 
to punish the 


The oldcit Red Indiin Chief, aged ninety -cine 
Fr<rm m Phtttogr&fftL. 


Who it rntdiiAtiwr an entirely new work 
at the age of seventy. 

From a Photograph, 

Boers had failed ; that Buller 
had met humiliating defeat 
at Colenso, and that 
Roberts's only son was 
among the slain. At this 
critical juncture the veteran 
G en eral was summ on ed 
once more to action, and 
speedily reversed the situa- 
tion. Within a few weeks 
Kim her ley was relieved and 
Cronje captured, and a few 
months later Roberts had 
swept irresistibly over the 
veldt, scattering the enemy 
before him and occupying 
the capitals of both the Boer 

| f republics. 

4rv'EPT|lpp story is told of 
" Bobs w that while riding 
in company with General 



Buller, on the outskirts of 
Pretoria, they came upon a 
fairly high rail fence. 

" What about taking that 
fence ? n asked Roberts, 

Although seven years 
younger than his chief, Buller 
replied : — 

11 1 am too old for that, sir." 
Whereupon Lord Roberts, 
setting spurs to his horse, 
cleared the fence as though 
he were the youngest hunts- 
man in a field at home. It 
is to Bullets credit that he 
followed, * 

Of statesmen who became 
noted in their later years one 
famous instance is that of 
Benjamin Franklin, who was 
in his seventy- first year when 
he arrived in Paris as the first 
American Ambassador to the Court of France, 
He was seventy-seven when he helped to 
negotiate the treaty that secured American 
independence; Minister at Paris until his 
seventy-ninth year; and after his return to 
his own country, serving in various public 
capacities, Franklin proved fully that a man 
may be of use when he is past sixty. 

Since Pitt, England has had no " boy 
Premier/' The "Iron Duke** was Prime 
Minister at sixty-one, and held a Cabinet 
portfolio at seventy-seven. Of his thirteen 
successors to the present day, all but three 
held office beyond sixty, all but five beyond 
seventy, and two — Palmerston and Gladstone 
— beyond their eightieth year, Palmerston 
dying in harness two days before his eighty- 
first birthday, and Gladstone retiring, still 
vigorous, at eighty- four. 

Carlyle, writing of Sir Charles James 

Napier, said : 
"A lynx-eyed, 
fiery man — 
more of a hero 
than any 
modern I have 
seen in a long 
time," Napier 
was brave to 
rashness, and 
inspired by an 
energy which 
ill brooked 
control, He 
was sixty when 
he Wok com- 

Who won the Boer war at iixLy- eight. • c .« 

IhmiAHiiAif^AD-iiv mand 0t the 


Full of vigour at eitfhiy-one. 
From a Fhoto. bj S. A M Mi*. 

British Army in India and 
conquered the province of 
Sind, In one fierce battle he 
hurled his force of two thou- 
sand men upon a native army 
of twenty thousand > and liter- 
ally hewed them down, fight- 
ing himself in the forefront of 
the battle ; for Napier was a 
General of the older type, 
assailing the enemy sword in 
hand. After the war was over 
he served as Governor of the 
province for several years, 
quelling the hill tribes and 
bringing order out of chaos. 
At sixty-six he was sent out 
once more to India to put 
down an insurrection of the 

At seventy-six Victor Hugo 

completed his "Histoire d'un 

Crime/* At the age of eighty-three, when 

death summoned him, he was working upon 

a tragedy with all the energy of youth. 


Who wm work ins on a Lr&gcdy wheP he died at eighty-diKe. 
From « Photo, b\t Sudor, Paris. 

Herbert Spencer was forty when he resolved 
to write a series of books covering the whole 
field of philosophy. Ill-health and lack of 
means|WlA^UffJbW6ttiid not distract him 
from his self appointed task. For upwards of 
forty years he laboured at the task, completing 1 


2 20 


it just before his death, in 
his eighty- fourth year. The 
only work he left unfinished 
was a volume of remini- 
scences, undertaken as a 
relaxation from his more 
arduous labours. Tolstoi is 
another distinguished ex- 
ample of mental fertility in 
old age. 

From a striking symposium 
entitled " How to Attain 
Longevity" the following is 
taken: — 

"Earl Nelson, who is in 
his eighty-seventh year, is a 
remarkable man, for he 
started handicapped in life 
by the fact that ( as a child, 
up to five or six, I suffered 
from indigestion, but have 
always since had very good 
health until some twenty years 
back, when I was poisoned 
by an overdose of strychnine. 
Sir James Paget declared I 
should never recover the use 
of my lower limbs, but perse- 
verance and a determination 
never to give in so far restored 
me that I have been able to 
walk four or five miles a day, 
shooting, for some years,' 

" Lord Nelson's views of life 
are formulated in the following 
way I * If you have no heredi- 
tary disease from the sins of 
your ancestors, the great secret 
of a long life is to live 3 by 
God's help, according to His 
laws* A youth wasted in self- 
indulgence, which the world 
calls pleasure, is the real cause 
of most of the evils of this life, 
I have no fixed regime^ but am 
generally in bed by twelve, 
and seldom require seven 
hours' sleep. If called at six 
I am as fresh as a lark. I 
never let the grass grow under 
my feet, and if I have any- 
thing on my mind I get rid of 
it at once. This does away 
with all morbidness, and 
makes one cheerful and in 

Digitized by ijC 


Who did noi complete hU ureal work ti I] 


From a Fhofa, lv KttivU d fVy- 


Full of mental activity at ciahty-two. 

Front a Fhotv. by Carl Seebald. 


The olden man alive, btiiiB one 
hundred ft nd tixteem 

good spirits, and helps to 
make one feel young even 
sit eighty-seven, I never 
smoke, but am no abstainer, 
though always moderate in 
food and drink, and avoid 
physic as much as pos- 

Considerable space is 
given in the first number of 
The OM Man to an inter- 
view with "The Oldest 
Man in the World," by 
Karl Renck, of the Vienna 
Courant There are many 
claimants to the honour, 
but none would seem to he 
better authenticated than 
the claim of Anton Stein- 
acker, a native of Festran, 
in Styria, who was bora on 
April 24th, 1794, and is there- 
fore in the one hundred and 
seventeenth year of his age. 
Up to the age of a hundred 
Anton, who was formerly a 
schoolmaster, did not use 
spectacles, his eyesight being 
excellent. He remembers 
seeing Napoleon riding at the 
head of his troops in 18 n, 
and a year later Anton was 
drafted into the army, but did 
not serve. On his hundred 
and fifth birthday he was pre- 
sented to the Emperor Franz 
Josef, although he was not 
until two or three years later 
the oldest Austrian subject 
His diet now consists almost 
exclusively of milk. Although 
now blind and deaf, his intelli- 
gence is still keen, and he 
always asks after the health 
and movements of the Emperor. 
11 Life is still worth living/* 
said Anton, in a parting mess- 
age, *'I am glad to be 

In the words of Sir James 
Crichton Browne : " Life owes 
every man and woman one 
hundred years. It is their 
business to see that they collect 

the debt-" 


Original tram 




Illustrated ty "Will Owen- 

HS a'mostthe only enjoyment 
IVe gut left," said the oldest 
inhabitant, taking a long, 
slow draught of beer, "that 
and a pipe o* baccy. Neither 
of *em wants chewing, and 
that's a great thing when you ain't got any- 
thing worth speaking about left to chew 

He put his mug on the table and, ignoring 
the stillness of the summer air, sheltered the 
flame of a match between his cupped hands 
and conveyed it with infinite care to the 
bowl of his pipe, A dull but crafty old eye 
squinting down the stem assured itselF that 
the tobacco was well alight before the match 
was thrown away. 

w As I was a-saying, kindness to animals is 

CouvHiihi. toio. 

all very well/* he said to the wayfarer who 
sat opposite him in the shade of the Cauli- 
flower elms; "but kindness to your feller- 
ereeturs is more. The pint wot you give me 
is gone, but Tm just as thankful to you as if 
it wasn't." 

He half closed his eyes and, gazing on to 
the fields beyond, fell into a reverie so deep 
that he failed to observe the landlord come 
for his mug and return with it filled. A 
little start attested his surprise, and, to his 
great annoyance, upset a couple of table- 
spoonfuls of the precious liquid, 

"Some people waste all their kindness on 
dumb animals," he remarked, after the land- 
lord ha^^}]^^a|i|ff| l i^^]lfis offended vision, 
" but I was never a believer in it* I mind 
some time ago when a gen'leman from 

bv W. W. Tacobs. 



Lunnon wot ad more money than sense 
offered a prize for kindness to animals. 
I was the only one that didn't try for to 
win it. 

" Mr. fiunnett 'is name was, and 'e come 
down and took Farmer Hall's 'ouse for the 
summer. Over sixty, 'e was, and old enough 
to know better. He used to put saucers of 
milk all round the 'ouse for cats to drink, 
and, by the time pore Farmer Hall got back, 
every cat for three miles round 'ad got in the 
habit of coming round to the back-door and 
asking for milk as if it was their right. 
Farmer Hall poisoned a saucer o' milk at 
last, and then 'ad to pay five shillings for a 
thin black cat with a mangy tail and one eye 
that Bob Pretty said belonged to 'is children. 
Farmer Hall said he'd go to jail afore he'd 
pay, at fust, but arter five men 'ad spoke the 
truth and said they 'ad seen Bob's youngsters 
tying a empty mustard-tin to its tail on'y the 
day afore, he gave way. 

" That was Bob Pretty all over, that was ; 
the biggest raskel Claybury 'as ever had ; 
and it wasn't the fust bit o' money 'e made 
out o' Mr. Bunnett coming to the place. 

"It all come through Mr. Bunnett's love 
for animals. I never see a man so fond of 
animals as 'e was, and if he had 'ad 'is way 
Claybury would 'ave been overrun by 'em by 
this time. The day arter 'e got to the farm 
he couldn't eat 'is breakfuss because of a pig 
that was being killed in the yard, and it was 
no good pointing out to 'im that the pig was 
on'y making a fuss about it because it was its 
nature so to do. He lived on wegetables and 
such like, and the way 'e carried on one day 
over 'arf a biled caterpillar 'e found in his 
cabbage, wouldn't be believed. He wouldn't 
eat another mossel, but sat hunting 'igh and 
low for the other 'arf. 

" He 'adn't been in Claybury more than a 
week afore he said 'ow surprised 'e was to see. 
'ow pore dumb animals was treated. He 
made a little speech about it one evening up 
at the schoolroom, and, arter he 'ad finished, 
he up and offered to give a prize of a gold 
watch that used to belong to 'is dear sister 
wot loved animals, to the one wot was the 
kindest to 'em afore he left the place. 

"If he'd ha' known Claybury men better 
'e wouldn't ha' done it. The very next 
morning Bill Chambers took 'is baby's milk 
for the cat, and smacked is wife's 'ead for 
talking arter he'd told 'er to stop. Henery 
Walker got into trouble for leaning over Charlie 
Stubbs's fence and feeding his chickens 
for 'im, and Sam Jones's wife had to run off 
'ome to 'er mother 'arf-dressed because she 

had 'appened to overlay a sick rabbit wot 
Sam' ad taken to bed with 'im to keep warm. 

41 People used to stop animals in the road 
and try and do 'em a kindness— especially 
when Mr. Bunnett was passing — and Peter 
Gubbins walked past 'is house one day with 
ole Mrs. Broad's cat in 'is arms. A bad- 
tempered old cat it was, and, wot with Peter 
kissing the top of its 'ead and calling of it 
Tiddleums, it nearly went out of its mind. 

"The fust time Mr. Bunnett see Bob 
Pretty was about a week arter he'd offered 
that gold watch. Bob was stooping down 
very careful over something in the hedge, 
and Mr. Bunnett, going up quiet - like 
behind 'im, see 'im messing about with a 
pore old toad he 'ad found, with a smashed 

"'Wot's the matter with it?* ses Mr. 

" Bob didn't seem to 'ear 'im. He was 
a-kneeling on the ground with 'is 'ead on one 
side looking at the toad ; and by and by he 
pulled out 'is pocket-'an'kercher and put the 
toad in it, as if it was made of egg-shells, and 
walked away. 

"'Wot's the matter with it?' ses Mr. 
Bunnett, a'most trotting to keep up with- 'im. 

" ' Got its leg 'urt in some way, pore thing,' 
ses Bob. * I want to get it 'ome as soon as 
I can and wash it and put it on a piece o' 
damp moss. But I'm afraid it's not long for 
this world.' 

" Mr. Bunnett said it did 'im credit, and 
walked 'ome alongside of 'im talking. He 
was surprised to find that Bob hadn't 'eard 
anything of the gold watch 'e was offering, 
but Bob said he was a busy, 'ard- working 
man and didn't 'ave no time to go to hear 
speeches or listen to tittle-tattle. 

" ' When I've done my day's work/ he 
ses, ' I can always find a job in the garden, 
and arter that I go in and 'elp my missis put 
the children to bed. She ain't strong, pore 
thing, and it's better than wasting time and 
money up at the Cauliflower.' 

11 He 'ad a lot o' talk with Mr. Bunnett for 
the next day or two, and when 'e went round 
with the toad on the third day as lively and 
well as possible the old gen'leman said it was 
a miracle. And so it would ha' been if it 
had been the same toad. 

" He took a great fancy to Bob Pretty, 
and somehow or other they was always 
dropping acrost each other. He met Bob 
with 'is dog one day— a large, ugly brute, but 
a'mosl; as: clever as wot Bob -was 'imself. It 
stood there with its tongue 'anging out and 
looking at Bob uneasy-like out of the corner 



of its eye as Bob stood a-patting of it and 

calling it pet names. 

" * Wunnerful affectionate old dog, ain't 

you, Joseph ? ' ses Bob. 

u * He's got a kind eye/ ses Mr. Bunnett 
" * He's like another child to me, ain't you, 

wot a pity it was everybody 'adn't got Bob 
Pretty's common sense and good feeling* 

£lt It ain't that/ ses Bob, shaking his 'ead 
at him ; ' it ain't to my credit. I dessay if 
Sam Jones and Peter Gubbins, and Charlie 
Stubbs and Dicky Weed J ad been brought 


l/-"' * 









my pretty? 1 ses Bob, smiling at 'im and 
feeling in 'is pocket. ' Here you are, old 

11 He threw down a biskit so sudden that 
Joseph thinking it was a stone went off like 
a streak o' lightning with J is tail between 'is 
legs and yelping his 'ardesL Most men 
would ha J looked a bit foolish, but Bob 
Pretty didn't turn a hair. 

" c Ain't it wunnerful the sense they've got/ 
he ses to Mr, Bunnett, wot was still staring 
arter the dog. 

u ' Sense? ' ses the old gen 'le man. 

" ■ Yes/ ses Bob, smiling, * His food ain't 
been agreeing with J im lately and he's starv- 
ing hisself for a bit to get round agin, and 
'e knew that 'e couldn't trust hisself along- 
side this biskit. Wot a pity men ain't like 
this with beer. I wish as 'ow Bill Chambers 
and Henery Walker and a few more 'ad been 
'ere just now/ 

<( Mr. Bunnett agreed with 'im, and said 

up the same as I was they'd 'ave been a lot 
better than wot I am.' 

" He bid Mr, Bunnett good-bye becos 'e 
said he'd got to get back to 'is w T ork, and Mr. 
Bunnett 'ad 'ardly got ? ome afore Henery 
Walker turned up full of anxiousness to ask 
his advice about five little baby kittens wot 
J is old cat had found in the wash-place the 
night afore. 

11 ■ Druwnd them little inner cent things, 
same as most would do, I can't/ he ses, 
shaking his 't*ad ; ( but wot to do with *em I 
don't know/ 

"'Couldn't you find 'omes for 'em?' ses 
Mr. Bunnett 

" Henery Walker shook his 'ead agin* 
* J Tain't no use thinking o' that/ he ses. 
'There's more cats than 'omes about 'ere. 
Why, Bill Chambers drownded six o'ny last 
week rlptiMf&yf'tftSf^lJ*" of my pore little 
boy. Upset 'im dreadful it did" 

" Mr. Bunnett walked up and down the 



room thinking. 'We must try and find 
'omes for 'em when they are old enough/ he 
says at last j l I'll go round myself and see 
wot Ic3lti do for you/ 

" Henery Walker thanked 'im and went 
off 'ome doing a bit o 1 thinking ; and well he 
? ad reason to. Everybody wanted one Q* 
them kittens* Peter Gubbins offered for to 
take two, and Mr. Bunnett told Henery 
Walker next day that 'e could ha* found 
'omes for 'em ten times oven 

"* You've no idea wot fine, kind-'arted 
people they are in this village when their 
'arts are touched,' he ses, smiling at Henery. 
' You ought to J ave seen Mr. Jones's smile 
when I asked 'im to take one. It did me 
good to see it. And I spoke to Mr, 
Chambers about drowning 'is kittens, and he 
told me J e hadn't slept a wink ever since. 
And he offered to take your old cat to make 
up for it, if you was tired of keeping it. J 

** It was very *ard on Henery Walker, I 
must say that. Other people was getting the 
credit of bringing up J is kittens, and more 
than that, they used to ask Mr. Bunnett into 
their places to see J ow the little dears was 
a-getting on. 

11 Kindness to animals caused more un- 
pleasantness in Clay bury than anything *ad 
ever done afore. There was hardly a man 

as 'ud speak civil to each other, and the 
wimmen was almost as bad. Cats and dogs 
and such -like began to act as if the place 
belonged to 'em t and seven people stopped 
Mr, Bunnett one day to tell 'im that Joe 
Parsons *ad been putting down rat-poison 
and killed five little baby rats and their 

41 It was some time afore anybody knew 
that Bob Pretty 'ad got his eye on that gold 
watch, and when they did they could 'ardly 
believe it. They give Bob credit for too 
much sense to waste time over wot they 
knew T e couldn't get, but arter they J ad heard 
one or two things they got alarmed, and 
pretty near the whole village went up to see 
Mr. Bunnett and tell f im about Bob's true 
character, Mr* Bunnett couldn't believe 'em 
at fust, but arter they 'ad told J im of Bob's 
poaching and the artful ways and tricks he 
3 ad of getting money as didn't belong to 'im, 
J e began to think different. He spoke to 
parson about J im, and arter that 'e said he 
never wanted for to see Bob Pretty's face agin. 

"There was a fine to-do about it up at 
this 'ere Cauliflower public-'ouse that night, 
and the quietest man o' the whole lot was 
Bob Pretty. He sat still all the time drinking 
'is beer and smiling at 'em and giving 'em 
good advice 'ow to get that gold watch. 




" 4 It's no good to me,' he ses, shaking his 
'ead c I'm a pore labourin' man, and I 
know my place/ 

4< "Ow you could ever 'ave thought you 
'ad a chance, Bob, /don't know,' ses Henery 

" 'Ow's the toad, Bob ? " ses Bill Chambers ; 
and then they all laughed. 

44 4 Laugh away, mates,' ses Bob ; c I know 
you don't mean it. The on'y thing I'm sorry 
for is you can't all 'ave the gold watch, and 
I'm sure you've worked 'ard enough for it; 
keeping Henery Walker's kittens for 'im, and 
'anging round Mr. Bunnett's.' 

44 * We've all got a better chance than wot 
you 'ave, Bob,' ses little Dicky Weed. 

" * Ah, that's your iggernerance, Dicky/ 
ses Bob. * Come to think it over quiet like, 
I'm afraid I shall win it arter all. Cos why ? 
Cos I deserves it.' 

44 They all laughed agin, and Bill Chambers 
laughed so 'arty that 'e joggled Peter 
Gubbins's arm and upset 'is beer. 

" * Laugh away,' ses Bob, pretending to get 
savage. * Them that laughs best laughs last, 
mind. I'll 'ave that watch now, just to spite 
you all.' 

u 4 'Ow are you going to get it, Bob ? ' ses 
Sam Jones, jeering. 

" * Never you mind, mate,' ses Bob, 
stamping 'is foot ; l but I'm going to win it 
fair. I'm going to 'ave it for kindness to 
pore dumb animals.' 

41 4 'Ear ! 'ear ! ' ses Dicky Weed, winking at 
the others. 'Will you 'ave a bet on 
it, Bob?' 

" ' No,' ses Bob Pretty ; ' I don't want to 
win no man's money. I like to earn my 
money in the sweat o' my brow.' 

" * But you won't win it, Bob,' ses Dicky, 
grinning. 'Look 'ere! I'll lay you a level 
bob you don't get it.' 

"Bob shook his 'ead, and started talking 
to Bill Chambers about something else. 

" * I'll bet you two bob to one, Bob,' ses 
Dicky. ' Well, three to one, then.' 

" Bob sat up and looked at 'im for a long 
time, considering, and at last he ses, ' All 
right,' he ses, * if Smith the landlord will mind 
the money I will.' 

" 4 He 'anded over his shillin', but very 
slow-like, and Dicky Weed 'anded over 'is 
money. Arter that Bob sat looking dis- 
agreeable like, especially when Dicky said 
wot 'e was goin' to do with the money, and 
by and by Sam Jones dared 'im to 'ave the 
same bet with 'im in sixpences. 

"Bob Pretty ; ad a pint more beer to think 
it over, and arter Bill Chambers 'ad stood 

VoL xL— 29. 

'im another, 'e said 'e would. He seemed a 
bit dazed like, and by the time he went 'ome 
he 'ad made bets with thirteen of 'em. Being 
Saturday night they 'ad all got money on 'em, 
and, as for Bob, 'e always 'ad some. Smith 
took care of the money and wrote it all up 
on a slate. 

" ' Why don't you 'ave a bit on, Mr. Smith ? ' 
ses Dicky. 

11 * Oh, I dunno', ses Smith, wiping down 
the bar with a wet cloth. 

" ' It's the chance of a lifetime,' ses 

" * Looks like it,' ses Smith. 

" * But 'e can't win,' ses Sam Jones, looking 
a bit upset. i Why, Mr. Bunnett said 'e ought 
to be locked up.' 

" * He's been led away,' ses Bob Pretty, 
shaking his 'ead. 'He's a kind-'arted old 
gen'leman when 'e's left alone, and he'll soon 
see wot a mistake 'e's made about me. I'll 
show 'im. But I wish it was something more 
useful than a gold watch.' 

" * You ain't got it yet,' ses Bill Chambers. 

" i No, mate,' ses Bob. 

" * And you stand to lose a sight o' money/ 
ses Sam Jones. 'If you like, Bob Pretty, 
you can 'ave your bet back with me.' 

" c Never mind, Sam,' ses Bob ; i I won't 
take no advantage of you. If I lose you'll 
'ave sixpence to buy a rabbit-hutch with. 
Good-night, mates all.' 

14 He rumpled Bill Chambers's 'air for 'im 
as he passed — a thing Bill can't abear — and 
gave Henery Walker, wot was drinking beer, 
a smack on the back wot nearly ruined 'im. 

" Some of 'em went and told Mr. Bunnett 
some more things about Bob next day, but 
they might as well ha' saved their breath. 
The old gen'leman said he knew all about 'im 
and 'e never wanted to 'ear his name men- 
tioned agin. Arter which they began for to 
'ave a more cheerful way of looking at things ; 
and Sam Jones said 'e was going to 'ave a 
hole bored through 'is sixpence and wear it 
round 'is neck to aggravate Bob Pretty with. 

" For the next three or four weeks Bob 
Pretty seemed to keep very quiet, and we 
all began to think as 'ow he 'ad made a 
mistake for once. Everybody else was trying 
their 'ardest for the watch, and all Bob done 
was to make a laugh of 'em and to say he 
believed it was on'y made of brass arter all 
Then one arternoon, just a few days afore 
Mr. Bunnett's time was up at the farm, Bob 
took 'is dog out for ;; walk, and arter watching 
the ^^f/p^^^Plti^FRIJI^ the old gen'leman 
by accident' up at Co^s "plantation. 

" l Good arternoon, sir,' he ses, smiling at 




'im. *Wot wunnerful fine weather weVe 
a-having for the time o' year. Fve just 
brought Joseph out for a bit of a walk. He 
ain't been wot I might call hisself for the last 
day or two, and I thought a little fresh air 
might do 'im good.* 

44 Mr, Bunnett just looked at 1m, and then 
'e passed 'im by without a word. • 

" ' I wanted to ask your advice about 'im/ 
ses Bob, turning round and follering of 'im. 
1 He's a delikit animal, and sometimes I 
wonder whether I 'aven't been a-pampering 
of 'Im too much/ 

" ■ Go away/ ses Mr, Bunnett ; ' I've 'eard 
all about you/ 

" * All about me ? J ses Bob Pretty, looking 
puzzled* ' Well, you can't f ave heard no 
'arm, that's one comfort/ 

" * I've been told your true character/ ses 
the old gen'leman, very firm, * And Fm 
ashamed that I should let myself be deceived 
by you, I hope you'll try and do better 
while there is still time/ 

" ' If anybody 'as got anything to say agin 
my character/ says Bob, ' I wish as they'd 
say it to my face, I'm a pore, hard-working 
man, and my character's all Fve got/ 

t( c You're poorer than you thought you 
was, then/ says Mr. Bunnett, f I wish you 
good arternoon/ 

41 1 Good arternoon, sir/ ses Bob, very 
humble, * I'm afraid some on J em ; ave been 
telling lies about me, and I didn't think I'd 
got a enemy in the world. Come on, Joseph, 
Come on, old pal/ 

"Hu shook 'is 'ead with sorrow, and made 
a little sucking noise between 'is teeth, and 
afore you could wink t his dog 'ad laid hold 
of the old gen'leman's leg and kep' quiet 
waiting orders* 

M i Help ! ' screams Mr, Bunnett. * Call *im 
off! Call 'im off!' 

t( Bob said arter wards that 'e was foolish 
enough to lose 'is presence o' mind for a 
moment, and instead o* doing anything he 
stood there gaping with 'Is mouth open. 

"'Call 'im off!' screams Mr. Bunnett, 
trying to push the dog away, 

" ' Don't move/ ses Bob Pretty in a fright- 
ened voice. ' Don't move, wotever you do." 

"'Call him off! Take 'im away!' ses 
Mr, Bunnett 

" ■ Why Joseph ! Joseph I Wotever are 
you a-thinkingof ? ' ses Bob, shaking 'is J ead at 
the dog. 'I'm surprised at you ! Don't you 
know Mr, Bunnett wot is fond of animals ? ' 

" ' If you don't call J im off/ ses Mr. Bun- 
nett, ittfWABIAilWfiWajTlll have you lucked 

41 ( I am a-calling 4 'im off/ ses Bob> looking 



very puzzled* 'Didn't you J ear me ? It's 
you making that noise that excites 'im, I 
think, PYaps if you keep quiet he'll leave 
go. Come off, Joseph, old boy, there's a 
good doggie.' 

" * It's no good talking to 'im like that/ 
ses Mr. Bunnett, keeping quiet but trembling 
worse than ever. 

** * I don J t want to 'urt his feelings,' ses 
Bob ; ■ they've got their feelings the same as 
wot we 'ave. Besides, pVaps it ain't is fault 
— p'r'aps he's gone mad, ? 

ili Jle/p/' ses the old genleman, in a 
voice that might ha' been heard a mile away, 

** * Why don't you keep quiet ? ' ses Bob* 

never forgive me ; but if you'll take the 
responserbility, and then go straight 'ome and 
give me the gold watch now for kindness to 
animals, I will/ 

" He shook his 'ead with sorrow and made 
that there sucking noise agin. 

" * All right, you shall 'ave it/ ses Mr. 
Bunnett, shouting. 

" * For kindness to animals?' ses Bob, 
( Honour bright ? ' 

11 * Yes/ ses Mr. Bunnett. 

" Bob Pretty lifted 'is foot and caught 
Joseph one behind that surprised 'im. Then 
he 'elped Mr, Bunnett look at 'is leg, and 
arter pointing out that the skin wasn't hardly 


' . 5T 

rUi±V|L« !■■ ''■ f [ rA y 


* YGu're on'y frightening the pore animal, and 
making things worse. Joseph, leave go and 
I'll see whether there's a biskit in my pocket. 
Why don't you leave go ? ' 

" * Pull him off. Hit f im/ ses Mr. Bunnett, 
u *WetV ses Bob Pretty, with a start. 

* Hit a poor, dumb animal wot don't know 
no better ! Why, you'd never forgive me, 
sir, and I should lose the gold watch besides/ 

" * No, you won't/ ses Mr, Bunnett, 
speaking very fast 'You'll 'ave as much 
chance of it as ever you had. Hit 'im ! Quick !* 

" - It 'ud break my 'art/ ses Bob. " He'd 

broken, and saying that Joseph 'ad got the 
best mouth of any dog in Clay bury, 7 e 
walked 'ome with the old gentleman and 
got the watch, He said Mr* Bunnett made 
a little speech when J e gave it to 'im wot he 
couldn't remember, and wot he wouldn't 
repeat if 'e could. 

" He came up to this 'ere Cauliflower 
public-'ouse the same night for the money J e 
had won, and Bill Chambers made another 
speech, ffflftAH?! 18^! Roland lord put 'im 
outside for it, it didn't" do Bob Pretty the 
good it ought to ha' done." 

Mr. Maskelyne s Reply 


Sir Hiram Maxim s Challenge. 

in which he 

rope tricks commonly per* 

formed by spirit mediums, 

who imitate the Davenport 


These tricks appear to have 
puzzled Sir Hiram considerably, and, whilst 
disclaiming any belief in spiritualism, he 
considers that they cannot be accomplished 
by normal means, and he offers me twenty 
pounds if I can show him how they are done. 

Verbal explanations of tricks of this class 
never satisfy persons who are totally ignorant 
of the devices of spirit mediums. Nothing 
short of practical demonstration would con- 
vince Sir Hiram, I am quite sure. To give 
him this, it would be necessary for me to 
construct apparatus, and go into training for 
the performance of dexterous feats which I 
have not attempted for thirty-five years. 

The munificent offer of twenty pounds 
would not cover the outlay, to say nothing of 
my time and trouble. I am, however, inclined 
to meet Sir Hiram in a sporting spirit rather 
than a mercenary one, and I make him the 
following offer, If Sir Hiram will arrange 
or a public contest between myself and a 

mifott <t Frv, 

rope -tying medium, I will 
undertake to reproduce the 
tricks of that medium, and I 
will afterwards show Sir Hiram 
how they are done, without 

Sir Hiram writes : *' I am 
strongly of opinion to - day 
that Mr. Maskelyne would 
be quite unable to go on a 
new stage with a firm new 
floor and, with no other 
apparatus except a light box, 
perform the tricks that I saw T done by Mr, 
Fay," Sir Hiram is entirely mistaken- I have 
performed the tricks he describes, and much 
more wonderful ones, under more severe con- 
ditions than any spirit medium has ever sub- 
mitted to, several times in the open air, on 
new stages with firm new floors, and with huge 
audiences surrounding the cabinet I have 
performed them repeatedly in private drawing- 
rooms without a stage of any description. 

One of the last private exposes of the entire 
cabinet and dark seances of the Davenports 
1 gave at Sandringharn in 1875 in the pre- 
sence of our late and lamented King Edward, 
Queen Alexandra, and a large party. 

At that time our present King was a small 
boy, and, being somewhat startled at the 
manifestations in i:he dark, Queen Alexandra 

held h^jAl^mHftlTV 

I mention this performance particularly, as 
some very amusing incidents took place, 1 



was performing the famous coat trick of the 
Davenports* Ira Davenport, with his wrists 
tied behind his back and the knots sealed, 
could take off his coat in a few seconds, I 
improved upon that trick, I was secured in 
the same manner, and in addition I allowed 
a piece of tape to he passed through the 
buttonholes of the lapels of my coat, tied 
tightly across the chest, and sealed. In this 
condition I could take off my coat in five 
I had practised throwing things in the 

a laugh I put the coat on inside out When 
the lights were turned up it was seen that the 
silk lining of the coat was a mass of rags, 
The King was convulsed with laughter, and 
exclaimed, "Dick, Dick, is that your coat?" 

The reply was, ** No, sir ; it's one I 

Queen Alexandra was greatly interested, 
and repeatedly gave instructions to the com- 
mittee appointed to apply the tests, " I*ook 
behind," she would exclaim ; "see no tricks 


dark, and could aim very accurately, I threw 
my coat at King Edward, intending that it 
should fall into his lap* Unfortunately, how- 
ever, my aim was not so good as usual 
When the lights were turned up his head was 
completely enveloped in my coat* 

To show that there was no trick in the 
coat, I asked to have one lent to me. The 
King told one of the party who was about 
my size to lend me his dress-coat. To create 

At the side of the banqueting hall in 
which the performance was given there is a 
high balcony. After the entertainment, when 
we were taking the cabinet to pieces, Queen 
Alexandra entered this balcony and was 
peeping over the top, watching the operation. 
I happened to look up l our eyes met. She 
gave ' alHIM^.WJ#Hi"&BOTTftrent off in evident 
enjoyment of her little joke. 

Sir Hiram makes a great feature of the 



fact that his medium was tied by a sailor. I 
and my late colleague, Mr. Cooke! have been 
tied scores of times by sailors, and have never 
found the least difficulty in performing under 
their bonds. 

The most severe test we ever had was at 
Swansea, in 1866. A sail manufacturer, 
named Macnamara, made a heavy wager with 
Mr. Gregory, the proprietor of the Gate 
House Hotel, Tenby, that he would tie us so 
that we could neither get free nor produce 
any manifestations. The contest created 
considerable excitement. Mr. Macnamara 
secured us in a most scientific manner. He 
occupied nearly an hour in the operation. 
He used very few knots, but plaited the ropes 
round our limbs. Under this exceptional test 
we were entirely successful, and Mr. Gregory 
won his wager. 

At the conclusion of Sir Hiram's article 
he makes the following statement : " So far, 
Mr. Maskelyne has utterly failed to under- 
stand or explain the extraordinary perform- 
ances of little Mr. Fay." I have utterly failed 
to understand or explain why Sir Hiram 
should presume to make such a statement 
about a performance he never witnessed. 

He states that his first visit to my enter- 
tainment was in 1883. I permanently with- 
drew the greater portion of the Davenport 
tricks from my programme in 1875. We had 
constantly performed them for ten years, and 
they were becoming stale. The excitement 
about them had subsided; and, moreover, 
the tying by the public was a long and 
tedious operation. Consequently, more 
attractive novelties had to be substituted. 

I would remind Sir Hiram that we gave 
our exposi of the Davenport tricks while the 
brothers were still before the public, and 
when their performances were fresh in the 
minds of all who witnessed them. So closely 
did we imitate their tricks, and so far did I 
improve upon them, that the spiritualists 
generally declared we were much more 
powerful mediums than the Davenports, but 
found it more profitable to deny the 
possession of spirit power. 

I should like to have one more flutter of 
excitement in my old age, so I hope Sir 
Hiram will see his way to accept my offer. 
If he does, I promise him that I will not 
only show him how his medium's tricks are 
done, I will show him all the tricks of the 
Davenports, which are much cleverer than 
the poor imitations he has witnessed. I 
will also show him my improvements upon 
these tricks. 

One of these would have puzzled him and 

the famous magicians of Bridgeport much 
more than Mr. Fay's trick of ringing bells 
with his hands full of peas. I and Cooke 
used to play a cornet duet with our wrists 
tied behind our backs, the knots sealed, and 
our hands full of flour. 

We did this without spilling a grain of 
flour or cracking a seal. I will even show 
you this, Sir Hiram ! Won't that tempt you 
to come up to the scratch ? 

To verify many of the above statements, I 

append a Press criticism of one of our first 

performances of the Davenport Cabinet 

Stance, which was given in the open air : — 

The Birmingham Gazette^ June 24th, 1865. 


On Monday evening an opportunity was offered of 
witnessing, in Jessops Gardens, the tricks — for so 
they are described — as performed by Messrs. Maske- 
lyne and Cooke. A plain and simply-constructed 
cabinet was placed upon a platform, in which the per- 
formers were securely tied by two gentlemen from the 
audience. Immediately upon the doors of the cabinet 
being closed bells began to ring, tambourines were 
played, and musical instruments pitched through the 
aperture. In less than a minute after the doors were 
closed they were thrown open again from the inside, 
and the operators were found to be as firmly and 
securely tied as in the first instance. The musical 
instruments were replaced in the cabinet, the doors 
again closed, and in a few seconds the bells rang 
more violently than ever, the tambourine appeared to 
be more eccentric in its movements, and naked hands 
were thrust through the aperture. The doors were 
again thrown open as before, and the two performers 
were found sitting calmly at either end of the cabinet, 
bound hands and feet. A gentleman from the 
audience then ascended the platform, was blind- 
folded, placed upon a seat in the cabinet, and his 
hands firmly tied to the knees of each of the 
operators. As soon as the doors were closed the 
bells, tambourine, and trumpet commenced their 
discordant discourse, and came forth from the cabinet 
aperture as if released from a temporary Bedlam. 

The doors again voluntarily opened, and the blind- 
folded gentleman was seen to be seated as when he 
first entered the cabinet, only that the tambourine 
was upon his head instead of being upon his knee. 

The succeeding trick, however, appeared to be far 
more marvellous than any which preceded it. Messrs. 
Maskelyne and Cooke remained oound as before ; the 
cords were sealed, and flour placed in their hands. 
In this condition they were again locked in the 
cabinet, two cornets being placed in the centre seat. 
Immediately upon the doors being closed a duet 
was commenced upon the cornets, " Home, Sweet 
Home," being the air selected for the purpose. It 
was well played, and would have called forth plaudits 
under ordinary circumstances, but in this case the 
applause was immense. Upon the last strain of the 
duet dying away the doors were flung open, the 
cornets remained passive upon the seat where they 
had been originally placed, and the operators sat as 
calmly and collectedly as if nothing had occurred. 

The ropes were inspected, and it was announced 
that the scab bed not been broken, nor had any of 
the flour been spiltedu The doors were again closed, 
and in about four minutes the young men emerged 
from the cabinet perfectly unfettered, with the flour 
still in their hands I 



But the most astonishing part of the programme 
had yet to he accomplished. Mr. Maskelyne an* 
nrjunced that he would be locked in a box three feet 
long by two feet wide and eighteen inches in depth, 
that the box should be corded according to the fancy 
"f anyone present, and still he would escape. 

An ordinary -looking deal box, of the dimensions 
slated, with a few T holes drilled in at either end, was 
placed in the cabinet, and in this Mr* Maskelyne 
voluntarily immured himself. The box was locked, 

again thrown open, and Mr. Maskelyne was seen 
coolly seated in the box, and smilingly bowing his 
acknowledgments of the applause with which he was 
greeted. This is a trick which the Davenports never 
attempted, and (as Barmjni somewhere has it) ** It 
must be seen to be believed." Messrs. Maskelyne and 
Cooke were then bound by Mr. E. Lawrence and Mr. 
Dal low — the first -named being, we believe, one of the 
gentlemen whose knot-tying somewhat perplexed the 
Brothers Davenport during their visit here — an opera- 


and the key given to a gentleman called from the 
audience, who corded up the box — an operation 
which occupied fully sis minutes. This having been 
done to ha satisfaction bells were placed upon the 
box and the doors of the cabinet were closed, out the 
click of the bolt had scarcely died away ere the bells 
began to be tremulous , and gradually increased to a 
clatter, till at length they were pitched through the 
arjertnre on to the plat for m t and in less than ten 
minutes from the closing of the doors they were 

tion which occupied nearly twenty minutes, but the 
exhibitors managed to free themselves from their 
bonds in about fifteen minutes, Mr. Lawrence then 
explained to the audience that he had seen the 
Brothers Davenport tied, and had, indeed, assisted 
in that operation, but he could venture to assert 
that those worthies were not tied nearly so securely 
as the rivals hn3 tweu. The performance through- 
out was .Iflttfl^j^ip^Uflpl^i^d gave the greatest 


A Problem Story for AVomen. 

Author oj "The Luck of the Black Cat," etc. 

Illustrated by W. Dewar. 


before her dressing-table on 

her thirty-fourth birthday, and 

rejoiced in the brightness of 

her eyes, the glint of her hair, 

the smoothness of her skin. 

She circled her face with her 

arms, and her eyes laughed into the mirror. 

Then she picked up a newspaper that lay 

beside her and began reading aloud : — 

Miss Alden 's biography is necessarily short, and, in 
view of her youth, it would be presumption to speak 
of her as one who has "arrived," although many a 
writer of long experience might well envy the position 
to which this girl-novelist has already attained. . . . 
Strong as her story is, it lacks somewhat of conviction 
in the love scenes. At times the reader is carried to 
the point of great expectations, which are not realized. 
But Miss Alden will gain strengtli as she gains years, 
and we look to her to write a really great love story. 

She ceased to laugh as she read the end of 
the notice, prophecy of her future greatness, 
and her features contracted in pain. 

" I wonder, oh, I wonder ! " she murmured. 
"No, I do not wonder — I know! I can 
write well only what I feel, and I can make 
others feel only what I have felt. i It lacks 
somewhat of conviction in the love scenes ! ' 
Had I made my heroine hungry, no one 
would have doubted her, for I myself have 
lacked for bread. Had I made her hate, she 
would have been convincing, for I have hated. 
Had I made her ambitious, all would have 
understood, for I have aspired and do aspire. 
But I made her love — and I have never loved. 
I should have made her try to love, as I 
have tried, yet never succeeding ! " 

She fell upon her knees before the dressing- 
table, and the mirror reflected back a bowed 
head of chestnut hair. 

" I do not ask to be /oved, but only to 
love ! " she whispered. 

A minute later she stood again before the 

glass, peering into her own face, " Youth ! 
Youth ! " she cried ; " silly, simpering girl- 
hood, prolonged into the years that should 
have brought maturity of mind and body — 
the years that have brought crows' feet and 
love and children to other women ! But it 
cannot always be like this. Perhaps love 
will come, but come too late. What if at 
forty, forty-five, first love, with all its madness 
and passion, should come to me ! Suppose, 
then, the wrinkles show above and below 
my eyes; grey hair demands a plastering 
smoothly back in style of coiffure; stout 
figure calls for black or sombre browns, while 
only in love I am young ! 

" Or suppose that love never comes, and 
yet from the present time I grow old ? My 
mouth will take on a compression of the lips 
and a downward droop; my eyes will grow 
dim ; my forehead furrowed ; my hair white ; 
my features sharp ; my figure attenuated or 
corpulent, as the vagaries of old age shall 
decree ; while I myself will have within me 
none of the sweetness and graces that old 
age should bring ! 

" It must not be ! I will fight for my 
birthright— every woman's birthright — love 
in youth ! " 

She went to another part of the room and 
took from her wardrobe a frock of pink and 
lace and ribbons. Dressed in this, with hat 
and boots and gloves that marked her as a 
woman of taste and daintiness, she sought 
a street of humble name and neighbourhood 
and climbed the steps of a house to a door 
where an unpolished brass plate proclaimed 
the name of "Charles Denlow, M.D." The 
plate also proclaimed the fact that Dr. 
Denlow's office hours were riot such as 
included Ot^in^M^ffihich Miss Alden had 
chosefl.jfeisfl^ig^'Jt^cshe little doubted she 
would find him in, for he was young and 

"DID SH£ TELL B7Al? 7> 


" Ah, Dr. Den low, you an in I " she 
exclaimed, hypocritically ; then, with a sudden 
access of honesty, " I won't pretend to sur- 
prise, for I know you have few patients. 
That is the reason I have called," 

The young doctor looked at her half sadly, 
but said nothing, and she continued :— 

" Dr. Den low, you once told someone in 
my hearing that you knew the secret of the 
preservation of youth in women, and that. 

beauty-doctor, but a physician," he answered, 
with half-offended dignity. 

" Do you know my age ? " she asked, 

"I do not." 

"Judging by my appearance^ how old do 
you think I am ? n 

H The newspapers would lead one to believe 
that you are eighteen or twenty, but I think 
it possible you may be twenty-three — not 


given your own way in the treatment of a 
woman not yet disfigured by age, you could 
preserve her youth and keep her in appear- 
ance a girl when other women of her age 
were old Is that the truth ? " 

"You do well to quote me accurately/' 
said the young man, " for in making that 
statement I was careful to use the phrase 'in 
appearance/ I could not keep the heart 
young, but only the face and the body." 

**And you would prescribe no cosmetics, 
no erumciling, no bU'Lirhmy nor dyeing of 
the hair, pencilling of the eyebrows — none 
of the common 'aids to beauty ' ? " 

"Certainly, none of them, I am not a 

u I am thirty-four ! " 

11 It is very extraordinary, but I once knew 
of another woman like you— only one, how- 
ever — and she — — " The doctor checked 
his reminiscences* 

Miss Alden looked at him earnestly. 
"Tell me, doctor, what happened to that 
other woman ? " she asked. 

i£ Oh, at thirty-five you would have sworn 
she was twenty !*' he said, lightly. 

"And at forty-five?" His questioner's 
eyes peered terror stricken into his face, 

His ral^'TOdtlAniy'Tecoiled from him, 
and buried her face in her hands. "As I 



feared ! " she murmured. Then, " Lately I 
have been impressed with the idea that 
suddenly, one day, I may wither and dry up 
and become an old hag, like Rider Haggard's 

"You need not/ 1 replied the doctor, 

" The other woman did ! " 

" The other woman was a fool ! She would 
not take care — yet she was warned ! " 

" Warn me, and I will not be a fool ! 1 
will take care ! Dr. Denlow, as you know, 
I have suddenly become a celebrity — the 
* girl-novelist ' they call me. It is prophesied 
that within a few years I shall be one of the 
greatest of women writers. At present I am 
poor, and what ready money I have received 
for my book must go to the paying off of 
debts. Now, you are a young physician, 
with neither money nor reputation. Ten 
years hence I am sure to have plenty of 
money. Take me under your care, save for 
me my youth, and when I am forty-five years 
old I will pay you your fee with a hundred 
per cent, interest." 

The young man looked at her keenly. He 
was by way of being a woman-student. 

" I will make you a counter-proposal," he 
said. 4< In what you say concerning your 
future I agree with you. I have studied your 
work with interest and admiration. The 
great love story is yet to be written, and 
you will write it ! But I also have an am- 
bition for fame — fame rather than money, 
although the fame I crave will bring me 
money. I will give you a course of instruc- 
tions and treatment which, if followed 
implicitly, will preserve your youth, or rather 
keep you always fifteen years younger than 
your real age. Just as now, at thirty- four, 
you appear to be in your teens, so at forty- 
five you will appear to be a woman of 
thirty — and a beautiful woman of thirty 
has the world at her feet. She can rule 
the gods ! 

" For my services I will exact this fee. At 
the end of eleven years you are to let me 
advertise you as my patient, so that all the 
world shall give me credit for what I hrve 
done. When you are forty-five, your age — I 
mean the date of your birth — must be made 
public, your photograph published, and the 
credit given to me. This is the fee I ask. 
You see I, too, am ambitious ! " 

For an instant the woman hesitated, and 
the man searched her face. There was 
something in his eyes that was half sym- 
pathetic, half curious, wholly doubting, but 
she was not looking at him. 

" Yes," she said, finally. " It shall be as 
you say. But tell me, after those eleven 
years are up, shall I still go on, being always 
fifteen years younger than my age ? " 

11 In appearance^ yes ! " he answered. 
So in the doctor's dingy little office the 
protocol of the agreement was signed, and 
the following morning the woman began the 
course of treatment which he prescribed. 
Her heart was light, and eleven years seemed 
a long time. 

All the world was reading the great love 
story, and all the world wondered. Between 
the publication of her first novel and the 
great love story six other books had inter- 
vened, and as the manuscript of each one 
passed through the hands of the literary 
adviser of the publishing house which handled 
her work, a sigh of disappointment had 
escaped this man. For he was looking for 
something from Madeline Alden. So was the 

Now it had come, the time being just 
eleven years since she had first shot, meteor- 
like, into the literary firmament. 

In the midst of all the luxury and beauty 
that her soul craved, she sat in her apart- 
ment, a glorious, regal-looking woman of, 
possibly, thirty. Compared with herself on 
that other day eleven years back, when she 
had sat before the glass that mirrored girl- 
hood, she was as the full-blown rose to the 
promising bud, and in her eyes shone a new 
light — the light of love. 

She rocked herself backwards and forwards 
in the little gilt chair, and as she rocked 
she sang, while her voice — sweet, fresh, yet 
impassioned — rang through the halls. 

"Now the greater glory shines round 
about me, what do I care for fame?" she 
exclaimed, jumping up and going over to a 
vase of roses and burying her face in them. 
" Love, beautiful love, how I have longed 
for you ! How I have waited ! Ah ! You 
have given me more than I used to ask ! I 
asked but to love, and now I not only love — 
I am loved. And I am so young — oh, so 
young ! " 

Then suddenly the smile left her face and 
the light in her eyes went out 

"This is the date. The time is up. 
Denlow has kept his word. I am fifteen 
years to the good, and I must pay his price. 
Next week the world will know. Next week 
he must know. What will he say? What 
will he do ? He ioves a woman of thirty. 
He himself is but thirty-one. Will he cast 
me off because of my deceit ? Will he recoil 


2 35 

from me as from something unnatural when in livery ushered Madeline Alden into the 
he picks up his morning paper and reads? waiting-room, where fifteen others waited 
But I love him. Nothing can take that joy their turn for a five-minutes' interview with 


from me. But also I want to be loved — the great physician. She sat down at a 

I want to be loved ! " Sheraton table, her fingers wandering idly 

Dr. Denlow's offices were no longer dingy, among the magazines and weeklies. Two or 

nor were they in a humble neighbourhood. three medical journals, with the name of 

Success and rapid advancement had followed John Dert^^t^felMg/l^ffipg articles, were 

the young physician t and now a footman on the table, and as Miss Alden picked qp§ 



of them up her hand trembled and she felt a 
cold shiver creeping down her spine. " What 
will the newspapers "say about him and me 
next week ? " she murmured. 

" Ah, Miss Alden, good morning ! " she 
heard him saying, when finally she had 
been ushered into the inner sanctum, and 
looking up she found him keenly scrutinizing 

"You are not quite well, I fear," he said 
to her kindly, as he led her to a chair. 
11 What seems to be the trouble on this, our 
. day of days ? Surely you have not come 
to tell me that I am a failure? Does 
anyone dispute that you are thirty ? Indeed, 
would they not rather incline to twenty- 

" I have no physical ailment, doctor," she 
answered, huskily. " I am merely unhappy, 
but I am an honest woman, and have come 
to keep my contract. Next week the world 
will know ! " 

" Is the world, then, so important a thing 
to you?" he asked, gently. And again his 
eyes searched her face. 

" No ; not the world. And, besides, what 
you are about to do will advertise me the 
more. It will sell thousands of my books, and 
I shall be not only famous, but immensely 

" That is true," he replied ; " and yet — 
well yet, Miss Alden, I must ask you to 
release me from my part of our contract." 

" I do not understand you," she said. 

" I mean that when I entered into that 
agreement with you I was young and very 
poor. Now I am a successful physician. 
Whether or not I ever really intended to 
exact my fee from you we will not now 
discuss. But I will say that it has been my 
privilege and my interest to watch over and 
instruct you, and the result has proved to me 
that my theory concerning the preservation 
of a woman's youth and beauty is correct. 
I have but insisted upon your following the 
laws of health as I know them — health for 
the mind as well as for the body. The 
experience I have gained is my fee. I have 
no account against you." 

" Free ! I am free ! " She stretched out 
her arms and hands as though breaking a 
chain. She lifted her face. The light shone 
out from her eyes. " You do not know what 
freedom you have bestowed upon me ! " she 
said, as her whole body seemed to throb with 

"Yes, I do know," he said, kindly. "You 

know I am a diligent reader of your writings, 

nd I have read and understood your latest 

book. Enjoy your youth ! Preserve it ! But 
remember, we have but turned back the 
clock after all. What mortal can do for you 
I have done ; but there are things I cannot 
do, nor can you. The clock says thirty, but 
Time is greater than the clock ! " 

His eyes showed sympathy, yet earnest- 
ness and warning, and she went away 

The afternoon wore on, and she waited for 
her lover, and a conflict waged in her heart 
No longer the question of what he would 
do and say, but what she ought to do, asked 
itself again and again, in different words and 
varying language. 

She need not tell, and if she did not tell, 
he might never know. She had never lied to 
him. She had never spoken of her age, but 
she knew he had read one of the articles 
which referred to her as being "still on the 
right side of thirty," and he had remarked, 
" I am a year or two ahead of you." That 
was on the night when he had folded her to 
his heart and said, "You have come to me 
just when you were most needed. I never 
cared to marry until I saw you, but now love 
and you are necessary to me. I have great 
ambitions, Madeline ! I aspire to the heights. 
I would be King — and see, I crown you 
Queen ! " Playfully he had taken his watch- 
chain as he spoke, and circled it round her 

A ray of comfort shone into her heart at 
the remembrance. Was it right to tell him 
what might sadden him, taking the joy out 
of his life ? If he knew, perhaps a strange 
feeling of awe or horror of her, as of some- 
thing abnormal, might take possession of 
him against his will. She had heard him say 
that youth should mate with youth ; that age 
belonged to age. This was when he was 
telling her of one of his friends who had 
married a woman twenty years his junior. 
What would he think of a marriage where 
there was fourteen years' seniority on the side 
of the woman ? Why, she, Madeline Alden, 
was " middle-aged " ! She rushed to the glass 
over the fireplace. 

" It is a lie ! " she cried. " I am young ! 
I only fell in love for the first time a year 
ago ! And he needs me ! The world has 
need of him ! Without me he cannot do 
his duty as the King ! n 

Again she faltered, and again she remem- 
bered his need of her. Once in her life she 
had prayed to God that she might love some- 
one better than herself. Would it be loving 
him better than herself to hurt his heart — 
perhaps to wreck his future, his life, just for 




the sate of gaining a clear conscience for nearer, and she felt his pause before the 

herself ? And yet— and yet— oh, that eternal door : — 

yet ! " Better than myself ! " she murmured ; 

Her hand wandered uncertainly and dazedly " better than myself 1 " 
over her brow as she heard his footsteps on 

the stairs. He was coming — her lover, hur Did she tell him? What would you have 

King. Then, as the welcome sounds grew done ? 

by Google 

Original from 


A Page of Puzzles* By Henry E. Dudeney. 


IT has t>een suggested that this puzzle was a great 
favourite among the young apprentices of the 
City of London in the sixteenth and seventeenth 
centuries. Readers will have noticed the curious 
brass grasshopper on the Royal Exchange. This 
long-lived creature escaped the fires of 1666 and 
1838. The grasshopper, after his kind, was the crest 
of Sir Thomas Gresham, merchant grocer, who died 
in 1579, and from this cause it has been used as a 
sign by grocers in general. Unfortunately for the 

legend as to its 
origin, the puzzle 
was only produced 
by myself so late as 
the year 1900. On 
twelve of the thir- 
teen black discs are 
placed numbered 
counters or grass- 
hoppers. The puzzle 
is to make I to 6 
change places with 
those numbered 7 to 
12, the vacant disc 
being left in the 
same position as at 
present. Move one at a time in any order, either to 
the adjoining vacant disc or by jumping over one 
grasshopper, like the moves in draughts. Nos. 7 to 
12 can only move in the direction of a clock hand, 
and the others the opposite way. Note also that 
1 and 12 must be left next to the vacant disc, and try 
to find the fewest possible moves. 


The illustration shows how ten counters may be 

placed on the points of the diagram where the lines 

intersect so that they form dve straight lines with four 

counters in every line, as indicated by the dotted 

















— 1 




M \J 


lines. It is an easy but interesting puzzle to find a 
second way of doing this. Of course, a mere reversal 
or reflection of the given arrangement will not be 
considered different ; it must be a new scheme 
altogether. And, of course, you cannot increase the 
dimensions of the diagram or alter its shape. 

The arrangement shown in the illustration would 
be a word square if 
only all the lines and 
columns spelt real 
words, which, with the 
exceptions of " poised " 
and "sitter," they do 
not. The puzzle is to 
rearrange these parti- 
cular thirty-six letters 
so that a perfect word 
square is formed. As 
a clue I will state that 
all the letters in the 
diagonal — P, T, U, T, 
L, M — are correctly placed as they stand at present. 
Most of the other letters are out of their proper 


































Solutions to Last Montk's Puzzles. 

If we interchange cards 6 and 13, and begin our 
count at 14, we may take up all the twenty-one 
cards — that is, make twenty-one "catches" — in the 
following order : 6, 8, 13, 2, 10, I, II, 4, 14, 3, 5, 
7, 21, 12, 15, 20, 9, 16, 18, 17, 19. We may also 
exchange 10 and 14 and start at 16, or exchange 
6 and 8 and start at 19. 

The key move is I Q— B 6, and whatever Black may 
do White can checkmate him on the following move. 

There are nine solutions to this puzzle, as follows, 
and no more : — 

12x483 = 5,796 27x198 = 5,3,6 28 x 157=4,396 
42 x 138 = 5,796 39 x 186 = 7,254 4 x 1,738 = 6,952 
18 x 297 = 5,346 48 x 159 = 7,632 4 x 1,963 = 7,852 

The seventll^nswer is the one that is most likely to 
be overlooked by solvers of the puzzle. The key 
to the solution of this puzzle lies in what is known 
as "casting out nines. Any addition of the nine 
digits, however arranged, will result in 9 if we keep 
on adding until we get a single figure. Thus, if we 
add together I, 2, 4, 8, 3, 5, 7, 9, 6, we get 45, and 
again adding 4 to 5 we get 9, Also, taking the three 
first groups separately, we find their digits add to 
3, 6, and 9 respectively. Add these together and we 
get 18, which again makes 9. Now the digital 
additions must group in one of the following ways : 
3> 6, 9; 6, 3, 9; 9, 9, 9; I, 4, 4; or 4, 1, 4, 
because in every case not only do the three 
numbers sum to 9 (in the manner explained), 
but the firs? two w^ien multiplied together pro- 
duce the third, For example, 3 times 6, or l8, 
equals 9. These conditions are necessary to a 
solution of the puzzle. 


A Story for Ckildren. By E. NESBIT. 
Illustrated by Spencer Pryse. 

E left Lucy in tears and Philip 
in the grasp of the hateful 
Pretenderette, who, seated on 
the hippogriff, was bearing 
him away across the smooth 
blueness of the wide sea. 

11 Oh, Mr. Noah," said Lucy, between 
sniffs and sobs, " how can she ! You did say 
the hippogriff could only carry one !" 

" One ordinary human being," said Mr. 
Noah, gently. " You forget that dear Philip 
is now an earl." 

11 But do you really think he's safe ? " 
Lucy asked. 

" Yes," said Mr. Noah. " And now, dear 
Lucy, no more questions. Since your arrival 
on our shores I have been gradually growing 
more accustomed to being questioned, but I 
still find it unpleasant and fatiguing. Desist, 
I entreat." 

So Lucy desisted, and everyone went to 
bed, and, for crying is very tiring, to sleep. 
But not for long. 

Lucy was awakened in her bed of soft dry 
seaweed by the sound of the castle alarm 
bell, and by the blaring of trumpets and the 
shouting of many voices. A bright light 
shone in at the window of her room. She 
jumped up and ran to the window and leaned 
out. Below lay the great courtyard of the 
castle, a moving sea of people on which 
hundreds of torches seemed to float, and the 
sound of shouting rose in the air as foam 
rises in the wind. 

" The Fear ! The Fear ! " people were 
shouting. " To the Ark ! To the Ark ! " 
And the black night that pressed round the 
castle was loud with the wild roar of waves 
and the shriek of a tumultuous wind. 

Lucy ran to the door of her room. But 
suddenly she stopped. 

" My clothes," 'she said, and dressed 
herself hastily, for she perceived that her own 
petticoats and shoes were likely to have 

Copyright, 1910, by 

better wearing qualities than seaweed could 
possess, and if they were all going to take 
refuge in the Ark she felt she would rather 
have her own clothes on. 

" Mr. Noah is sure to come for me," she 
most sensibly told herself. "And Til get as 
many clothes on as I can." Her own dress, 
of course, had been left at Polistopolis, but 
the ballet dress would be better than the 
seaweed tunic. When she was dressed she 
ran into Philip's room and rolled his clothes 
into a little bundle and carried it under her 
arm as she ran down the stairs. Half-way 
down she met Mr. Noah coming up. 

"Ah ! you're ready," he said ; " it is well. 
Do not be alarmed, my Lucy. The tide is 
rising but slowly. There will be time for 
everyone to escape. All is in train, and the 
embarkation of the animals is even now in 
progress. There has been a little delay in 
sorting the beasts into pairs. But we are 
getting on. The Lord High Islander is show- 
ing remarkable qualities. All the big animals 
are on board ; the pigs were being coaxed on 
as I came up. And the ant-eaters are having 
a late supper. Do not be alarmed." 

" I can't help being alarmed," said Lucy, 
slipping her free hand into Mr. Noah's, 
" but I won't cry or be silly. Oh, I do 
wish Philip was here." 

" Most unreasonable of girl children," 
said Mr. Noah ; " we are in danger, and 
you wish him to be here to share it ? " 

" Oh, we are in danger, are we ? " said 
Lucy, quickly. " I thought you said I 
wasn't to be alarmed." 

" No more you are," said Mr. Noah, 
shortly ; " of course you're in danger. But 
there's Me. And there's the Ark. What 
more do you want ? " 

" Nothing," Lucy answered in a very small 
voice, and the two made their way to a raised 
platform. .overlooking the inclined road which 
led up 'to- W ^6wfeT h: on T which the Ark 
had been built. A long procession toiled 

E. N^abit-Blnnd, 



slowly up it, of animals in pairs, urged and 
goaded by the M.A.'s under the orders of the 
Lord High Islander, 
The wild wind blew the flames of the 

the little ant-people ran this way and that 
way and every way about their little ant- 

The Lord High Islander came in, pale and 


torches out like golden streamers and the 
sound of the waves was like thunder on the 

Down below, other M.A/s were busy 
carrying bales tied up in seaweed Seen 
from above, the busy figures looked like 
vnts when you kick into an ant-hill and 

serious, with' all the calm competence of 
Napoleon at a crisis. 

M Sorry to have to worry you, sir," he said 
to Mr. Noah, " but of course your experience 
is invfl^^ft j^av^pi^JY I can't remember 
what bears eat Is it hay or meat ? " 

" It's buns," said Lucy* " I beg your 



pardon, Mr. Noah. Of course I ought to 
have waited for you to say." 

" In my Ark," said Mr. Noah, " buns were 
unknown, and bears were fed entirely on 
honey, the providing of which kept our pair 
of bees fully employed. But if you are sure 
bears like buns, we must always be humane, 
dear Lucy, and study the natural taste of 
the animals in our charge." 

" They love them," said Lucy. 

" Buns and honey," said the Lord High 
Islander ; " and what about bats ? " 

" I don't know what bats eat," said 
Mr. Noah. "I believe it was settled after 
some discussion that they don't eat cats. 
But what they do eat is one of the eleven 
mysteries. You had better let the bats fast." 

"They are, sir," said the Lord High 

" And is all going well ? Shall I come 
down and lend a personal eye ? " 

" I think I'm managing all right, sir," said 
the Lord High Islander, modestly. " You 
see it's a great honour for me. The M.A.'s 
are carrying in the provisions, the boys are 
stowing them, and also herding the beasts. 
They are very good workers, sir." 

" Are you frightened ? " Lucy whispered, 
as he turned to go back to his overseeing. 

" Not I," said the Lord High Islander. 
"Don't you understand that I've been pro- 
moted to be Lord Vice-Noah of Polistarchia? 
And, of course, the hearts of all Vice-Noahs 
are strangers to fear. But just think what a 
difficult thing fear would have been to be a 
stranger to if you and Philip hadn't got us 
the Ark ! " 

" It was Philip's doing," said Lucy. " Oh, 
do you think he's all right ? " 

" I think his heart is a stranger to fear, 
naturally," said the Lord High Islander, " so 
he's certain to be all right" 

When the last of the animals had sniffed 
and snivelled its way into the Ark — it was a 
porcupine with a cold in its head — the 
islanders, the M.A.'s, Lucy, and Mr. Noah 
followed. And when everyone was in, the 
door of the Ark was shut from inside by an 
ingenious mechanical contrivance worked by 
a more than usually intelligent M.A. 

You must not suppose that the inside of 
the Ark was anything like the inside of your 
own Noah's Ark, where all the animals are 
put in anyhow, all mixed together, and wrong 
way up as likely as not. That, with live 
animals and live people, would, as you will 
readily imagine, be quite uncomfortable. 
The inside of the Ark which had been built 
nnH#>r the direction nf Mr Noah and Mr. 

Perrin was not at all like that. It was more 
like the inside of a big Atlantic liner than 
anything else I can think of. All the animals 
were stowed away in suitable stalls, and there 
were delightful cabins for all those for whom 
cabins were suitable. The islanders and the 
M.A.'s retired to their cabins in perfect order, 
and Lucy and Mr. Noah, Mr. Perrin, and 
the Lord High Islander gathered in the 
saloon, which was large and had walls and 
doors of inlaid mother-of-pearl and pink 
coral. It was lighted by glass globes filled 
with phosphorus collected by an ingenious 
process invented by another of the M.A.'s. 

"And now," said Mr. Noah, "I beg that 
anxiety may be dismissed from every mind. 
If the waters subside, they leave us safe. If 
they rise, as I confidently expect them to do, 
our Ark will float, and we still are safe. In 
the morning I will take soundings, and begin 
to steer a course. We will select a suitable 
spot on the shore, land, and proceed to the 
Hidden Places, where we will consult the 
oracle. A little refreshment before we retire 
for what is left of the night ? A Captain's 
biscuit would, perhaps, not be inappro- 
priate ? " He took a tin from a locker and 
handed it round. 

"That's A 1, sir," said the Lord High 
Islander, munching. " What a head you 
have for the right thing ! " 

11 All practice," said Mr. Noah, modestly. 

" Thank you," said Lucy, taking a biscuit. 
« I wish " 

The sentence was never finished. With a 
sickening suddenness the floor of the saloon 
heaved up under their feet, a roaring, surging, 
battering sound broke round them ; the 
saloon tipped over on one side and the 
whole party was thrown on the pink silk 
cushions of the long settee. A shudder 
seemed to run through the Ark from end to 
end, and " What is it ? Oh ! what is it ? " 
cried Lucy, as the Ark heeled over the other 
way and the unfortunate occupants were 
thrown on to the opposite set of cushions. 
(It really was, now, rather like what you 
imagine the inside of your Noah's Ark must 
be when you put in Mr. Noah and his family 
and a few hastily-chosen animals and shake 
them all up together.) 

" It's the Sea," cried the Lord High 
Islander; "it's the great Fear come upon us ! 
And I'm not afraid !" He drew himself up 
as well as he could in his cramped position 
with Mr. Noah's, ^fjtjpj^piipning his shoulder 
down and Mr. Perrin's boot on his ear. 

With a shake and a shiver the Ark righted 
itself and the floor of the saloon pot flat again. 



" It's all right," said Mr. Perrin, resuming 
control of his boot ; " good workmanship, it 
do tell. She ain't shipped a drop, Mr. Noah, 

" It's all right," said Mr. Noah, taking his 
elbow to himself and standing up rather 
shakily on his yellow mat : — 

11 We're afloat, we're afloat 

On ihe dark rolling tide ; 
The Ark's waienight, 

And ihe crew are inside. 
Up, up with the flag, 

Let it wave o'er ihe sea; 
We're afloat, we're afloat — 

And what else should we be ? " 

" / don't know," said Lucy ; " but there 
isn't any flag, is there ? " 

"The principle's the same," said Mr. 
Noah ; " but I'm afraid we didn't think of 
a flag." 

"/ did," said Mr. Perrin; "it's only a 
Jubilee hankey" — he drew it slowly from his 
breast-pocket ; a cotton Union Jack it was — 
" but it shall wave all right. But not till day- 
light, I think, sir. Discretion's the better 
part of, don't you think, Mr. Noah, sir? 
Wouldn't do to open the Ark out of hours, 
so to speak ! " 

"Just so," said Mr. Noah. "One, two, 
three! Bed!" 

The Ark swayed easily on a sea not too 
rough. The saloon passengers staggered to 
their cabins. And silence reigned in the 

I am sorry to say that the Pretenderette 
dropped the wicker cage containing the 
parrot into the sea — an unpardonable piece 
of cruelty and revenge ; unpardonable, that is, 
unless you consider that she did not really 
know any better. The hippogriff's white 
wings swept on. Philip, now laid across the 
knees of the Pretenderette (a most un- 
dignified attitude for any boy, and I hope 
none of you may be placed in such a 
position) screamed as the cage struck the 
water, and, "Oh ! Polly !" he cried. 

"All right," the parrot answered; "keep 
your pecker up ! " 

"What did it say?" the Pretenderette 

" Something about peck," said Philip, 
upside down. 

" Ah ! " said the Pretenderette, with satis- 
faction, " he won't do any more pecking for 
some time to come." And the hippogriff 
wings swept on over the wide sea. 

Polly's cage fell — and floated. And it 
floated alone till the dawn, when, with 
wheelings and waftings and cries, the gulls 

came from far and near to see what this new 
strange thing might be that bobbed up and 
down in their waters in the light of the 
new-born day. 

" Halloa ! " said Polly in bird-talk, clinging 
upside down to the top bars of the cage. 

" Halloa, yourself," replied the eldest gulL 
" What's up ? And who are you ? And 
what are you doing in that unnatural 
lobster-pot ? " 

" I conjure you," said the parrot, earnestly, 
" I conjure you by our common birdhood to 
help me in my misfortune." 

"No gull who is a gull can resist that 
appeal," said the master of the sea birds ; 
" what can we do, brother bird ? " 

"The matter is urgent," said Polly, but 
quite calmly. " I am getting very wet and I 
dislike salt water. It is bad for my plumage. 
May I give an order to your followers, bird- 

" Give," said the Master Gull with a 
graceful wheel and whirl of his splendid 

" Let four of my brothers raise this 
detested trap high above the waves," said 
the parrot, " and let others of you, with your 
brave strong beaks, break through the bars 
and set me free." 

" Delighted," said the Master Gull; "any 
little thing, you know," and his own high- 
bred beak was the first to take hold of the 
cage, which presently the gulls lifted in the 
air and broke through, setting the parrot 

"Thank you, brother birds," the parrot 
said,. shaking wet wings and spreading them. 
"One good turn deserves another. The 
beach yonder was white with cockles but 

" Thank you, brother bird," they all said* 
and flew fleetly cocklewards. 

And that was how the parrot got free from 
the cage and went back to the shore to have 
that little talk with the blugraiwee which I 
told you about in the last chapter. 

The Ark was really very pleasant by day- 
light with the sun shining in at its windows. 
The sun shone outside as well, of course, 
and the Union Jack waved cheerfully in the 
wind. Breakfast was served on the terrace 
at the end of the Ark — you know — that 
terrace where the boat part turns up. It 
was a very nice breakfast, and the sea was 
quite smooth— a quite perfect sea. This 
was rather fortunate, for there was nothing 
else. Sea on every side of the Ark. Nq 
land at all. 




" How ever shall we find the way/' Lucy 
asked the Lord High Islander, "with nothing 
but sea ? * 

** Oh/' he answered, " that's all the better, 
really. Mr. Noah steers much better when 
there's no land in sight. It's all practice, 
you know," 

" And when we come in sight of land, will 
he steer badly then ? " 

" Oh, anybody can steer then," said Billy ; 
"you, if you like/' So it was Lucy who 
steered the Ark into harbour, under Mr. 
Noahs directions. Arks are very easy to 
steer if you only know the way. Of course* 
Arkd arft not like other vessels : thev renuire 

neither sails nor steam engines, nor oars to 
"make them move, The very Arkishness of 
the Ark makes it move just as the steersman 
wishes. He only has to say "Port/ 1 "Star- 
board/' "Right ahead," "Slow/* and so on, 
and the Ark {unlike many people I know) 
immediately does as it is told. So steering 
was easy and pleasant ; one just had to keep 
the Ark's nose towards the distant domes 
and pinnacles of a town that shone and 
glittered on i he she re 3 few miles away* And 
the to^R[)»flin |i|fffii||f)^pfl nearer, and the 
black streak" thai was the people of the town 
began to show white dots that were the 
nennle*K fares. AnH then the Ark was 



moored against a quay side and a friendly 
populace cheered as Mr. Noah stepjjed on 
to firm land, to be welcomed by the governor 
of the town and a choice selection of eminent 

" It's quite an event for them," said Mr. 
Perrin, "They don't have much happening 

town, who had come down to the harbour in 
a hurry and a flurry and a furry gown. 

" I've arranged everything," said Mr. Noah, 
at last "The islanders and the M.A.'s 
and the animals are to be allowed to camp 
in the public park till weVe consulted the 
oracle and decided what's to be done with 


here, A very lazy lot they be, almost as bad 
as Slothtown," 

" What makes them lazy?" Lucy asked, 

** It's owing to the onions and potatoes 

growing wild in these pans, I believe/ 1 said 

the Lord High Islander, t( They gut enough 

to eat without working. And the onions 

ike them sleepy." 

Vhey talked apart while Mr, Noah was 
tneiner thintrs with the governor of the 

them* They must live somewhere, I suppose. 
Life has become much too eventful for me, 
lately. However, there are only three more 
deeds for the Earl of Ark to do, and then, 
perhaps, we shall have a little peace and 


Philip, you know, 
to remember that he's now an Earl. Now 
vou and I must take camel and h#^ nflf." 

Lucy repeated* 
do wish you'd try 



And now came seven long days of camel 
travelling, through desert and forest, and 
over hill and through valley, till at last 
Lucy and Mr. Noah came to the Hidden 
Place where the oracle is, and where that 
is I may not tell you — because it's one of the 
eleven mysteries. And I must not tell you 
what the oracle is, because that is another of 
the mysteries. But I may tell you that if you 
want to consult the oracle you have to go a 
long, very quiet way between rows of round 
pillars rather like those in Egyptian tombs. 
And as you go it gets darker and darker, and 
when it is quite dark you see a little, little 
light a very long way off, and you hear, very 
far away, beautiful music, and you smell 
the scent of flowers that do not grow in any 
wood or field or garden of this earth. Mixed 
with this scent is the scent of incense and of 
old tapestried rooms where no one has lived 
for a very long time, and you remember all 
the sad and beautiful things you have ever 
seen or heard, and you fall down on the 
ground and" hide your face in your hands 
and call on the oracle, and if you are the 
right sort of person the oracle answers you. 

Lucy and Mr. Noah waited in the dark for 
the voice of the oracle, and at last it spoke. 
Lucy heard no words, only the most beautiful 
voice in the world speaking softly, and so 
sweetly and finely and bravely that at once 
she felt herself brave enough to dare any 
danger and strong enough to do any deed 
that might be needed to get Philip out of 
the clutches of the base Pretenderette. All 
the tiredness of her long journey faded away, 
and but for the thought that Philip needed 
her she would have been content to listen for 
«ver to that golden voice. Everything else in 
the world faded away and grew to seem 
worthless and unmeaning. Only the soft 
golden voice remained, and the grey hard 
voice that said, "You've got to look after 
Philip, you know ! " And the two voices 
together made a harmony more beautiful 
than you will find in any of Beethoven's 
sonatas. Because Lucy knew that she should 
follow the grey voice — and remember the 
golden voice as long as she lived. 

But something was tiresomely pulling at 
her sleeve, dragging her away from the won- 
derful golden voice. Mr. Noah was pulling 

her sleeve and saying, Come away," and 
they turned their backs on the little light and 
the music and the enchanting perfumes, and 
instantly the voice stopped and they were 
walking between dusky pillars towards a far 
grey speck of sunlight. 

It was not till they were once more under 
the bare sky that Lucy said : — 

" What did it say ? " 

" You must have heard," said Mr. Noah. 

" I only heard the voice and what it 
meant. I didn't understand the words. But 
the voice was like dreams and everything 
beautiful I've ever thought of." 

" I thought it a wonderfully straight- 
forward business-like oracle," said Mr. Noah, 
briskly, "and the voice was quite distinct, 
and I remember every word it said." 

(Which just shows how differently the 
same thing may strike two people.) 

" What did it say ? " Lucy asked, trotting 
along beside him, still clutching Philip's 
bundle, which through all these days she had 
never let go. 

And Mr. Noah gravely recited the follow- 
ing lines. I agree with him that, for an 
oracle, they were extremely straightforward: — 

You had better embark 
Once again in the Ark, 
And sailing from dryland, 
Make straight for the Island. 

" Did it really say that ? " Lucy asked. 

" Of course it did," said Mr. Noah ; " that's 
a special instruction to me, but I dare say you 
heard something quite different. The oracle 
doesn't say the same thing to everyone, 
of course. Didn't you get any special 
instruction ? " 

" Only to try to be brave and good," said 
Lucy, shyly. 

"Well, then," said Mr. Noah, "you carry 
out your instructions and Til carry out 

" But what's the use of going to the island 
if you can't land when you get there ? " 
Lucy insisted. " You know only two people 
can land there, and we're not them, are 

" Oh, if you begin asking what's the use, 
we sha'n't get anywhere," said Mr. Noah. 
" And more than half the things you say are 

/"^ 1 Original from 

(To be continued.)\m\kWk UNIVERSITY 


[We shall &e glad to receive Contributions to this section^ and to toy for such as are accepted \ 


T N one of your recent issues I noticed an illustra- 
1 tion similar lo the photograph 1 now send, and 
the contributor stated that he knew of only one person 
who could so place the fingers. This picture is a 
photograph of my hands placed in that position by 
myself It may interest your correspondent to know 
that there is another person, away over the seas, who 
has supple lingers, My friends think it a very difficult 
thing to da —Mrs, Donald Frascr, Northcote, Derby , 


A FEW weeks ago I found in a hedge, at a 
height of about two feet from the ground, a 
wren's nest which had been built in a hen's egg. 
The nest was made chiefly of feathers and a little 
gran, and contained three eggs, Surely this is a 
somewhal unusual nesting- place ? — Mr. A- H, Miller, 
Holly House, Leigh Green, Tenterden^ Kent* 


1^ HIS is a photo- 
graph of the 
skin ofT a man's 
right hand T Ixjth 
front and back. Me 
has had no illness, 
but has "shed" his 
skin four times with- 
in the last twelve 
years, and each time 
the* skin has come 
off more or less com- 
plete. — Mr, I J en ry 
Ridge, London 
Road, Newport 


AN elaborate practical joke which was played on a happy K^iy-WAjJllfity^fiSlJ'here illustrated. The 
victims were quite unaware of the decorations on the cab until they reached the station, and not until 
icy had to change trains at a later stage of their jnumey did they discover ihe liberties that had been 
ken with their trunk. — Mr. ii, E, Booth, 355, ftew Chester Road, Rock Kerry t Cheshire. 


347 ■ 


STANDING on the hanks of the River Awheg 
(the " Mulla" of Spenser), between Mallow and 
Fermoy, co- Cork, is a remarkable edifice known as 
"Johnny Roche's Tower-" The whole tower was 
built by the labour of one man, uho subsequently 
Tesided in it. This individual, who received no 
education whatever, also erected a mill (seen in the 
background), constructing the water-wheel after a 
special design of his own* Long before the intro- 
duction of the bicycle he went about the country in a 
wheeled vehicle of his own construction, propelled by 
fool -power. His last feat was to build his tomb iu 
the middle of the river-bed, John Koche died aliout 
twenty years ago, hut was not interred in the strange 
burying- place which he selected for himself, his less 
original relatives deeming such a mode of sepulture 
unchristian. — Mr, Rnhert W. Evans, Carker House, 
DonerajJe, co- Cork, Ireland, 


ON a recent visit to the city of Takata, on the 
north-west coast of Japan, I had occasion to 
observe what at 6rst thought I imagined was a hay- 
stack ! but on investigation found to l>e an immense 
mound of snow covered with straw - matting, The 
purpose of this mound was to keep in cold storage, 
for consumption in summer, fish caught in the winter- 
time. This is the only method of cold storage employed 
in the rural districts in the North -West of Japan, where 
the snowfall is very deep in winter, and these stacks 
are to be seen in considerable numbers distributed in 
different parts of the country. — Mr, Edgar Salinger, 
Na Kau Trading Corporation, Yokohama. 


THE following quaint notice which appeared 
on the front page of our local paper was 
inserted by one of our Hindu hawkers. The editor 
had evidently polished up the spelling* but as a speci- 
men of English I think it is unique, and it has defied 

C jailer 9 Towers, 

Mirth 14, 1910. 
fHHTS Improvement I wish every 
debtor not to pay debt to creditor 
at present time debtor has no necessity 
pay creditor, bf*cause I find out new 
law from Queensland lawyer. After 
my trouble I lbas oeen run two or 
three lawyers and gave my particular 
obligation ev*ry lawyer haad\ The 
lawyer gave me Improvement see Hy 
through the law book juat the eaine 
every lawyer say yes Creditor has 
power to take also property first from 
debtor after creditor can put him tco 
debtor insolvent himself by accord lug 
to 3aw I am very much Eatnsfled 
wtth latryer'a ad vice. I gave Im- 
provement for this both patter by 
shortly. Lady and Gentleman kindly 
bare lee 'through the paper Tor thla 
matter "J 

Indian H^-k--, 
Charters To#ere, 

the attempts of all here to decipher its meaning. 
Suban Box went insolvent some time ago, and it has 
evidently something to do with his insolvency*— 
Mr, John E. Shepherd, Charters Towers, North 


A FRIEND of mine has re- 
cently been elected as hon, 
secretary of a local natural his- 
tory society! and a few days after- 
wards he was somewhat astonished 
to receive the curious specimen 
shown in the photograph. The 
egg was blown and the shell 
irregularly blotched over with red 
and black writing ink, the address 
also being written in black ink. 
Marked ." Fragile/* and bearing 
a penny stamp, it was passed 
through the post at Coventry, duly 
poiii- mark tat and safely delivered 
at its destination, — Mr. John J* 
Ward, Rusinurbe House, Somersel 
Road, Coventry. 

2 4 S 




HERE is a photo- 
graph of a cocoa- 
nut which was hung on 
an apple tree in my 
garden here for the tils 
to feed on. Some three 
weeks after, on looking 
to see how much had 
been eaten, I was sur- 
prised to find , that a 
star Ling had laid an egg 
in it.— Mr. Ed. Rob. 
Pole, Great Bedwyn. 

A FTER picking a 
T\. tulip and placing 
it in warm water, 1 was 
very much surprised to 
see that the stalk had 
split and curled up in the way shown in the photo- 
graph. As will be seen, the stalk bad formed itself 

into a firm and even o r name n Lai stand for the flower. 
— Miss E. Disney, Sunningdale* York Crescent, 


THE group of shot -like pellets arranged In the 
middle of the illustration I send are minute 
hollow spheres of steel known as meteoric dust ; 
they are infinitely finer than ordinary sea - shore 
sand, a few grains of which have been placed 
around the group for the purpose of showing their 
comparative size- The whole is magni- 
fied twelve hundred times, or thirty- 
five diameters, and could he placed inside 
a circle one ■ tenth of an inch in 
diameter* Their origin is interesting. 
Meteors, or shooting stars, :is they arc more 
generally called, have from the beginning of 
things been bombarding the world at a rate 
estimated by the highest authority at many 
thousands an hour, of which , however, an 
average of only five or six are visible to the 
naked eye during the same period of lime. 
Fortunately, owing to our protecting envelope 
of air> very few of these missiles reach us* 
In size, meteors vary from a few ounces to 
my pounds in weight, and it is only very 

occasionally that one is of sufficient dimensions to 
survive the passage of eighty to one hundred miles 
through an atmosphere increasing in density as the 
earth is approached* The speed at which they enter 
the atmosphere, calculated at not less than thirty- five 
miles a second, gentiles such intense heat by friction 
that the iron of which the meteor principally con- 
sists is immediately reduced to an incandescent 

vapour, which is the luminous train so frequently 
seen in the heavens on a clear night. The vapour 
rapidly cools, and condenses in the form of these 
minute particles, which assume the spherical form 
as does snot during its fall from the top of the tower. 
Finally, the little spheres are scattered by the winds 
and currents in the upper regions* and! gradually 
descend in their millions as an invisible but never- 
ending shower* — Mr* F, T* Aman, 14, Thorburn 
Road, Kew Ferry, Birkenhead* 

'"T^HIS model traction-engine was made entirely 
X by myself from odds and ends -from bicycles, 
perambulators, egg-beaters, pails, tin cans, and so 
forth. I have been working on a farm all my life, but 
have always taken an interest in traction-engines* 
This little model will draw two trucks of stone 
up an incline with a rise of one fool in seven, 

pull a load of sixty "~ H^^J 

pounds on the level, or 
work while remaining 
stationary, — Mr. W, 
Blake, Broad ham 
Green, Oxted* Surrey. 

Prince Rupert and Its Surroundings. 


Author rf " The Sto*y of ike Railroad" " The Express Messenger** etc. 



HERE is a broad band belt- 
ing this whirling sphere, cross- 
ing this continent along the 
international boundary- lint-, 
which produces the best of 
what man needs most. It 
includes the red clover belt. 
It is the home of the apple orchard. It pro- 
duces strong men and women; big babies, 
high-jumping horses, and hard wheat. It is 
the place of prosperity and happy homes, 
Canada claims at least half this pay snvak. 
The soil here is renewed annually by the 
long rest — the four, five, or six months 1 sleep 
under the snow — as surely as the valley of the 
Nile is rejuvenated by the annual floods, 

Canada is a remarkably free, happy, 
pros pe rou s, sel f ■ go ve r net 1 
country. Money invested or 
employed in Canada is safe. 
Her banking system beats 
the American system as a 
modern motor-car beats a 
bu 1 1 - ca r t . Ca nad a covers 
nearly half a continent, her 
resources are immeasurable, 
her future all in: front; This 
Dominion is to-day. the. 
happiest hunting ground Tor 
the idle dollar under the 
sun* The average price of 
her wheat lands is twelve 
dollars fi fty cen ts, the average 
yield of wheat nineteen 
bushels, the average cost 
of sowing and reaping six 
dollars fifty cents, the pre- 
sent price of wheat one 

dollar, so that the land pays for itsdf each 
year, yielding the Dutchman's "one per 
cent * on the investment. 

It is evident now to the man in the street 
that the promoters of the Grand Trunk 
Pacific, and the Government which backed 
them, must have been pretty well informed 
as to the resources and possibilities of the 
territory to be tapped, for every day brings 
some new good news of new finds in fresh 

Perhaps the greatest surprises will come out 
of that last one thousand miles — Edmonton 
to the coast. In addition to the timber 
wealth, the mineral wealth already in sight 
is remarkable, Along the Bulkley River 
alone one hundred square miles of coal 


Vnl wl - -5tt 



lands have already been located, All this 
wilderness of Central British Columbia seems 
to be shot full of mineral — coal, lead, iron, 
copper^ silver, and gold have all been found 
here in paying quantities. Important dis- 
coveries have been made of high-grade lead- 
ores, stretching from Hazleton, at the head 
of navigation on the Skeena, to Aldermere, a 
distance of sixty miles along the G*T,R. 
survey line. 

Paralleling these lead-veins, and four miles 
away, is a copper belt of a very high grade of 
bornite and glace, all veins showing what is 
known as strong secondary enrichments. 

The lead -ore averages higher in silver than 

line a year later, and then great development 
is expected- 

Valuable as these mining prospects are, the 
real wealth of this Far West lies in its fertile 
valleys, where conditions are ideal for ranch- 
ing, dairying, and mixed farming. Here will 
also be found a great fruit country. They 
have only about ninety days of winter in 
which stock requires to be fed* 'I 1 he snow- 
fall is not heavy, and zero weather lasts only 
for a few days at a time. All sorts of wild 
berries grow here, showing the possibilities 
of fruit culture. The Grand Trunk Pacific 
travels along the Bulk ley Valley fur nearly 
one hundred miles. Wild grass and peavine, 


any yet found in British Columbia, returning 
about two hundred ounces of silver to the ton 
of lead-ore. All the veins struck so far run 
from two to four feet in depth, of clean 
shipping ore. 

In adjoining claims tetrahedrite, or grey 
copper ore, has been found, which will run 
seven hundred and fifty ounces in silver 
and thirty -six per cent, cupper. These are 
about as good values as any obtained at 

The Provincial Government is now busy 
building roads and blazing trails into these 
new .fields, and prospectors are coming in 
from the four corners of the world. 

The first one hundred miles of the Grand 

Trunk Pacific will be open for traffic east 

11 Prince Rupert in 19 10, and the whole 

sure indications of rich land, grow high 
enough to hide cattle. Ranchmen cut all 
the hay needed within call of the dinner- 

Mr, Thompson, on Thompson River, which 
flows into the Bulkley, has an ideal ranch and 
is growing rich. There is an abundance of 
fish and game ; black bear, so fat and lazy 
that they leave the trail reluctantly, can be 
seen any day, Salmon run up the Skeena 
and Bulkley for two hundred and fifty miles, 
and all the little lakes that lie among the hills 
are alive with mountain trout. 

Ranchman Barrett, on Barrett Lake, has 
on his ranch, beiiide^ cattle and horses, one 
hundtWL^URf^RSW of mules. One 
ranchman's wife cleared an average of seven 
dollars fifty cents a day from ten cows, after 


2 5 f 


JUL M'MMICR Oh' 1 90S. 

supplying her own table with butter and 
milk. From the tops of the surrounding 
hills a view of the Bulkley explains why they 
have named it Pleasant Valley. 

The timber for the greater part is small, 
scattered, and easily cleared. Here and 
there are open parks almost ready for the 
plough. There is an occasional cedar 
swamp j where splendid timber grows, and 
there is good timber in the gulches and 
along the larger streams. The Talqua 
(sometimes spelled 
Talkwa) River, 
which also empties 
into the Bulkley, 
is rich in mineral 
prospects* There 
are also extensive 
coalfields here, 

British Columbia 
is so vast, with such 
a varied climate, 
that almost any 
description will fit 
in somewhere. In 
the extreme south- 
east they have to 
irrigate, while in 
the far north-west 
corner of the Pro- 
vince, especially 
along the sea-coast, 
they have too much 
rain ; hut here in 
the Bulkley Valley, 
curtained off from the docks, prince rufbrt, 

the coast by the Coast 
Range and sheltered on the 
north-east by the Rockies, 
lies an Eden where climatic 
conditions are ideal for 

Another wonderful valley 
is the Nechaco, which is 
dotted with beautiful lakes, 
some of them ten miles 

Wild fruits, such as 
st r a w berr i e s, rasp be r r ies, 
sask toons, high- bush cran- 
berries, huckleberries, 
chokeberries, wild cherries, 
and many other kinds of 
berries, grow in great pro- 
fusion. There is no reason 
why apples and similar 
hardy fruits should not 
grow equally well At Soda 
Creek, about a hundred 
miles farther south, where the climate is 
similar but rainfall far less, there is an 
apple tree five years old which produced 
over 2oolb. of fruit last year, and bids fair to 
exceed that amount this season* This tree 
belongs to Mr, C, E, Smith, who is an 
intelligent gardener and observer. Last year 
he took 2251b, of plums from one tree, and 
plums of such a size that about ten of them 
would fill a quart jar* His cherries were 
picked this year at the beginning of last 



month, and yielded abundantly. He has 
grown pears successfully, and his currant and 
raspberry bushes are loaded down with ripe 
fruits of extraordinary size in the season. 
Among other things, Mr. Smith last year 
produced roolb. of potatoes from ilb. of 
seed potatoes, and took 22 51b, uf Hubbard 
squash from one vine, In his garden was 
some fine-looking corn, which he says pro- 
duces roasting ears about the middle of 
August, and fully ripens long before frost. 

At Quesn ell, early in July, oats were fully 
headed out, their tops touching the extended 
arms of a six foot man ; pt^as were just begin- 

Louis, sweet, cold, and clear. The soil is a 
highly-productive white silt ; the surface uf 
the valley is comparatively level, but sloping 
generally toward the many lakes and streams. 
There are countless open meadows and bits 
of prairie land giving the country a park-lite 

From reliable information obtained from 
Hudson Bay factors and trappers we gather 
that only a few days in winter show zero 
weather ; that the snowfall is from eighteen 
to twenty inches, coming in December and 
going in March. 

Small grain planted in April ripens io 


ning to ripen, potatoes larger than a man's 
fist, corn six feet three inches in height, and 
rhubarb with leaf thirty-six inches in width, 
the stalk thirty-two and a half inches in 
length and five and a half inches in circum- 
ference. From data already collected one 
could multiply evidence of the almost 
tropical productiveness of this wonderful 
garden spot. Prices keep pace with the 
growth. Potatoes bring five cents a pound, 
oats two dollars and fifty cents a bushel, and 
other farm products in proportion. 

There are about 200,000 acres of fine 
lands in the Nechaco Valley, through which 
the beautiful Nechaco River flows from west 
to east, wider than the Thames at the Tower 
fi ridge, swifter than the Mississippi at St 

August; the rainfall is ample, and comes in 
the growing time. 

The nights are cool* the temperature in 
the summer days ranging from 85 to 100 
degrees ; but even at 100 the heat is not 
oppressive. The autumn is warm and 
late ; killing frost comes usually about 
October 15 th. 

Last year Mr, Murray, a Missouri ranch* 
man and trapper, left some potatoes in the 
hills ; they survived, and produced a splendid 
volunteer crop this year. The snow came 
with the first heavy frost, and when the snow 
disappeared it was spring. 

The N^Ghaco. rwjil some day rival the 
^ r M that beau- 





EVER has Madame la 
Mode shown so much 
simplicity and grace as at 
the present moment. At 
th e fas h i ona ble Frenc h 
plages are now to be seen 
the latest triumphs of 
the Parisian modiste. Charming 
little frocks of the all-in one per- 
suasion are fashioned of French 
lawn. Distinctly is the u cut" of 
these gowns noticeable, since their 
make is of naught but a few pin 

Fl£. i.— A pretty little model for the 
river of mercerised or . French lawn, 
the draped effect over the shoulders 
being especially becoming to slim 
figures, while the dainty tucks and 
Valenciennes Insertion in two widths, 
as trimming, add just the correct 
touches required by the open -air girl. 

tucks and tiny gathers, and their 
decoration the finest of laces, princi- 
pally Valenciennes. 

Linen, striped, of Galatea design, is 
responsible for the success of many 
of the coat and skirt costumes — these 
summer suits bearing no resemblance to 
the tailored work of a short while since. 
The influence of the kimono sleeve, and 
the introduction of the yoke, more or 
less fanciful and in many cases merely 
simulated, has brought more of th<^ 
"dressy" touch to these little coats, 
and similarly with the new skirts which 
boast of gathered upper parts in con- 
junction with shaped flounces, mostly 



from the knee downwards. These are in 
some examples quitx plain, merely being 
finished with a six or seven-inch hem, and 
a stitched strap to connect them to the knee 
part of the jupt ; others again take the form 
of cunningly -contrived kilts, the side pleats 
in these being scarcely iipparent until the 
wearer walks. The charming little " swish " 
of these kilts invariably attracts admiration 

no less than the added freedom of movement 
allowed to the wearer. 

The Magyar or peasant style is ubiquitous 
and is likely to continue, with ingenious varia- 
tion^ well into the autumn. The latest of 
these is presented to us in an overdress falling 
to the knees, where it is appropriately shaped 
to display an embroidered underdress. This 
style has much to be said in its favour on the 
score of its practicality, as 
the overdress of serviceable 
crepon or striped batiste of 
darker hue successfully pro- 
tects the undergown of fine 
white broderie Anglaise- 

Chiffon, net, and mousse- 
line de soie receive almost 
exclusive attention for the 
modelling of the evening 
gown just now. At the 

FIje- a,— For casino or 
hotel wear, this* elm rul- 
ing everting gown is 
composed of mousse] In* 
de sole or French voile, 
the lengthwise applica- 
tion of the silk Irish 
crochet Insertion being 
particularly appreciated 
by the woman of a full. 
medium figure. 

casinos these materials, allied 
to silk embroideries or 
dmfelk of a coarse square 
mesh, patterned with fine 
soutache braid, are much 
observed, their high- waited 
effect and lengthwise style 
of trimming proving 
eminently becoming to the 
majority of wearers. 

Scarves of glass and silver- 
spangled net, tassel led with threaded 
beads to match, are very effective for 
ihe evening toilette, especially in 
lightening up an otherwise dull gown, 
white those of hand-painted chiffon 
add a charming note of finish to 
the afternoon toilette* 

Evening jackets of fine black lace 
are also worn, mounted over ciel-blue 
or pearl-grey chiffon, ornamented with 
golflrttirieiil+^ passementerie. 
INDp^A^H^l^^TYthe toilettes of the 
moment, simple as they appear, rely 
principally on the care and attention 



given to the wearer's figure. 
Corset modes are studied to a 
greater extent than formerly ; 
Englishwomen, copying the 
example of their French sisters, 
now realize that the effect of the 
most charming gown rests chiefly 
with the particular make and 
suitability of the corset beneath. 

If corsetting well improves the 
figure, so equally does the 
becomingly-dressed hair affect 
the hat. Women, whether 
naturally endowed or not with 
curling tresses, are appreciating 
the return of ringlets and I 
curls ; the particularly becoming 
millinery now seen is due not a 
little to this fact. There are 
very few faces — or chapeaux — 
that waves and bunches of curls 

■ Fig- j. — Crepon. In nilk or 
cotton, is responsible for the 
graceful, and at the same time 
practical, overdress shown In 
this sketch* Besides affording 
11 dldtlfict contrast to the sleeves 
and skirt of the underdreas. It 
receives more or less of the 
surface wear, thus allowing the 
latter to be of the finest make oJ 
English cmbrotderv, even for 
pun ting or other energetic wear. 

do not improve, and there is 
quite a display of these adorn- 
ments, which promise to be 
indulged in for some little while 
to come. 

Simple blouses of the Arcadian 
or Magyar persuasion are now 
worn, effectively fashioned in the 
new crepe Paisley silks and 
foulards, For more dressy wear 
sleevelets and a vest of guipure 
lace are cunningly 
added , effecting an 
apparently com plete 
alteration with a 
minimum amount of 

Ostrich feather 
stoles and pleated 
tulle and net ruffles in 
white, black, or grey 
are very popular with 
matrons for smart 


25 6 


Fifc. 4---One of the latent "tub* 1 suits, 
its fabrication either In linen, ho) [and, or 
Shantung being particularly suited to 
slight figures the dainty turnover collar 
°f grey or mauve hand embroidery and 
buttons covered with the material re- 
I U- citing the latest of French idea*. 

Fig. 5— As a summer visiting: or garden -party 

frock the possibilities -jot- ibis delightful design are 
endless, Alirce Ine mateEl|ata composing It allow of 
Infinite vHsbUtUnA UnfcV^oMld 1 " muslin, In conjunc- 
tion with a plain silk muslin fichu, composed the 
Ideal gown of our model, a wide ribbon of soft silk 
encircling the waist and knees. 

/"* 1 Original from 



C~* s^n ,,- * v Original from 



The Marriage 

or the Brigadier. 


Illustrated ly Gilbert Holiday. 

AM speaking, my friends, of 
days which are long gone by, 
when I liad scarcely begun to 
build up that fame which has 
made my name so familiar. 
Among the thirty officers of 
the Hussars of Conflans there 
was nothing to indicate that I was superior 
in any way to the others* I can well imagine 
how surprised they would all have been had 
i hey realized that young Lieutenant Etienne 
Gerard was destined for so glorious a career, 
and would live to command a brigade and to 
receive from the Emperor's own hand that 
cross which I can show you any time that 
you do me the honour to visit me in my 
little cottage— you know, do you not, the 
little whitewashed cottage with the vine in 
front, in the field beside the Garonne ? 

People have said of me that I have never 
known what fear was. No doubt you have 

Y<?I F *L— 33* Copyri£ht t 1910, by 

heard them say it. For many years out of a 
foolish pride 1 have let the saying pass. And 
yet now, in my old age, I can afford to be 
honest. The brave man dares to be frank, 
It is only the coward who is afraid to make 
admissions. So I tell you now that I also 
am human, that I also have felt my skin 
grow cold and my hair rise, that I have even 
known what it was to run until my limbs 
could scarce support me. It shocks you to 
hear it ? Well, some day it may comfort you, 
when your own courage has reached its 
limit, to know that even Etienne Gerard has 
known what it was to be afraid. I will tell 
you now how this experience befell me, and 
also how it brought me a wife. 

For the moment France was at peace, and 
we, the Hussars of Conflans, were in camp 
all that summer a few miles from the town of 
Les Andelys, in Normandy. It is not a 
very gay place by itself, but we of the Light 

Arthur Conan Doyle. 



Cavalry make all places gay which we visit, 
and so we passed our time very pleasantly. 
Many years and many scenes have dulled my 
remembrance, but still the name Les Andelys 
brings back to me a huge ruined castle, great 
orchards of apple trees, and, above all, a 
vision of the lovely maidens of Normandy. 
They were the very finest of their sex, as we 
may be said to have been of ours, and so we 
were well met in that sweet sunlit summer. 
Ah, the youth, the beauty, the valour, and 
then the dull, dead years that blur them all ! 
There are times when the glorious past 
weighs on my heart like lead. No, sir ; no 
wine can wash away such thoughts, for they 
are of the spirit and the soul. It is only the 
gross body which responds to wine ; but if 
you offer it for that, then I will not refuse it. 

Now, of all the maidens who dwelt in 
those parts there was one who was so superior 
in beauty and in charm that she seemed to 
be very specially marked out for me. Her 
name was Marie Ravon, and her people, thfe 
Ravons, were of yeoman stock who had 
farmed their own land in those parts since 
the days when Duke William went to 
England. If I close my eyes now I see her 
as she then was, her cheeks like dusky moss- 
roses, her hazel eyes so gentle and yet so 
full of spirit, her hair of that deepest black 
which goes most fitly with poetry and with 
passion, her figure as supple as a young 
birch tree in the wind. Ah ! how she swayed 
away from me when first I laid my arm 
round it, for she was full of fire and pride, 
ever evading, ever resisting, fighting to the 
iast that her surrender might be the more 
sweet. Out of a hundred and forty women 
— but who can compare where all are so 
near perfection? 

You will wonder why it should be, if this 
maiden was so beautiful, that I should be 
left without a rival. There was a very good 
reason, my friends, for I so arranged it that 
my rivals were in the hospital. There was 
Hippolyte Lesoeur— he visited them for two 
Sundays ; but if he lives I dare swear that he 
still limps from the bullet which lodged in 
his knee. Poor Victor also — up to his 
death at Austerlitz he wore my mark. Soon 
it was understood that if I could not win 
Marie I should at least have a fair field in 
which to try. It was said in our camp that 
it was safer to charge a square of unbroken 
infantry than to be seen too often at the 
farm-house of the Ravons. 

Now let me be precise for a moment. Did 

I wish to marry Marie? Ah, my friends, 

narriage is not for a Hussar, To-day he is 

in Normandy; to-morrow he is in the hills 
of Spain or in the bogs of Poland. What 
shall he do with a wife ? Would it be fair to 
either of them ? Can it be right that his 
courage should be blunted by the thought of 
the despair which his death would bring, or 
is it reasonable that she should be left fearing 
lest every post should bring her the news of 
irreparable misfortune ? A Hussar can but 
warm himself at the fire and then hurry 
onwards, too happy if he can but pass 
another fire from which some comfort may 
come* And Marie, did she wish to marry 
me ? She knew well that when our silver 
trumpets blew the march it would be over 
the grave of our married life. Better far to 
hold fast to her own people and her own 
soil, where she and her husband could dwell 
for ever amid the rich orchards and within 
sight of the great Castle of Le Galliard. Let 
her remember her Hussar in her dreams, but 
let her waking days be spent in the world as 
she finds it. 

Meanwhile we pushed such thoughts from 
our mind and gave ourselves up to a sweet 
companionship, each day complete in itself, 
with never a thought of the morrow*. It is 
true that there were times when her father, a 
stout old gentleman, with a face like one of 
his own apples, and her mother, a thin, 
anxious woman of the country, gave me 
hints that they would wish to be clearer as to 
my intentions, but in their hearts they each 
knew well that Etienne Gerard was a man of 
honour, and that their daughter was very 
safe, as well as very happy, in his keeping. 
So the matter stood until the night of which 
I speak. 

It was the Sunday evening, and I had 
ridden over from the camp. There were 
several of our fellows who were visiting the 
village, and we all left our horses at the inn. 
Thence I had to walk to the Ravons', which 
was only separated by a single very large 
field which extended to the very door. I 
was about to start when the landlord ran 
after me. 

"Excuse me, lieutenant," said he, "it is 
farther by the road, and yet I should advise 
you to take it." 

" It is a mile or more out of my way." 

" I know it. But I think that it would be 
wiser," and he smiled as he spoke. 

" And why ? " I asked. 

" Because," said he, " the English bull is 
loose in the field." from 

If itlTO^t^QHI^WlFf odious smile > 1 
might have considered it. But to hold a 

danger over me and then to smile in such 



a fashion was more than my proud temper 
could bear. I indicated by a gesture what I 
thought of the English bull. 

" I will go by the shortest way," said I. 

I had no sooner set foot in the field than 
I felt that my spirit had betrayed me into 
rashness. It was a very large square field, 
and as I came farther out into it I felt like the 
cockle-shell which ventures out from land, 
and sees no port save that from which it has 
issued. There was wall on every side of the 
field save that from which I had come. In 
front of me was the farm-house of the Ravons, 
with wall extending to right and left. A back 
door opened upon the field, and there were 
several windows, but all were barred, as 
is usual in the Norman farms. I pushed 
on rapidly to the door, as being the only 
harbour of safety, walking with dignity as 
befits the soldier, and yet with such speed as 
I could summon. From the waist upwards 
I was unconcerned and even debonair. 
Below, I was swift and alert. 

I had nearly reached the middle of the 
field when I perceived the creature. He was 
rooting about with his fore-feet under a large 
beech tree which lay upon my right hand. 
I did not turn my head, nor would the 
bystander have detected that I took notice 
of him, but my eye was watching him with 
anxiety. It may have been that he was in a 
contented mood, or it may have been that he 
was arrested by the nonchalance of my bear- 
ing ; but he made no movement in my 
direction. Reassured, I fixed my eyes upon 
the open window of Marie's bedchamber, 
which was immediately over the back door, 
in the hope that those dear, tender, dark eyes 
were surveying me from behind the curtains. 
I flourished my little cane, loitered to pick a 
primrose, and sang one of our devil-may-care 
choruses, in order to insult this English beast, 
and to show my love how little I cared for 
danger when it stood between her and me. 
The creature was abashed by my fearlessness, 
and so, pushing open the back door, I was 
able to enter the farm-house in safety and in 

And was it not worth the danger? Had 
all the bulls of Castile guarded the entrance, 
would it not still have been worth it ? Ah, the 
hours — the sunny hours— which can never 
come back, when our youthful feet seemed 
scarce to touch the ground, and we lived in a 
sweet dreamland of our own creation ! She 
honoured my courage, and she loved me for 
it. As she lay with her flushed cheek pil- 
lowed against the silk of my dolman, looking 
up at me with her wondering eyes, shining 

with love and admiration, she marvelled at 
the stories in which I gave her some picture 
of the true character of her lover ! 

" Has your heart never failed you ? Have 
you never known the feeling of fear?" she 

I laughed at such a thought. What place 
could fear have in the mind of a Hussar? 
Young as I was, I had given my proofs. I 
told her how I had led my squadron into 
a square of Hungarian Grenadiers. She 
shuddered as she embraced me. I told her 
also how I had swum my horse over the 
Danube at night with a message for Davoust. 
To be frank, it was not the Danube, nor was 
it so deep that I was compelled to swim ; but 
when one is twenty and in love one tells a 
story as best one can. Many such stories I 
told her while her dear eyes grew more and 
more amazed. 

"Never in my dreams, Etienne," said she, 
"did I believe that so brave a man existed. 
Lucky France that has such a soldier ; lucky 
Marie that has such a lover ! " 

You can think how I flung myself at her 
feet as I murmured that I was the luckiest of 
all — I who had found someone who could 
appreciate and understand. 

It was a charming relationship, too 
infinitely sweet and delicate for the inter- 
ference of coarser minds. But you can 
understand that the parents imagined that 
they also had their duty to do. I played 
dominoes with the old man and I wound 
wool for his wife, and yet they could not be 
led to believe that it was from love of them 
that I came thrice a week to their farm. For 
some time an explanation was inevitable, and 
that night it came. Marie, in delightful 
mutiny, was packed off to her room, and I 
faced the old people in the parlour as they 
plied me with questions upon my prospects 
and my intentions. 

" One way or the other," they said, in their 
blunt country fashion. " Let us hear that 
you are betrothed to Marie, or let us never 
see your face again." 

I spoke of my honour, my hopes, and my 
future, but they remained immovable upon 
the present. I pleaded my career, but they 
in their selfish way would think of nothing 
but their daughter. It was indeed a difficult 
position in which I found myself. On the 
one hand, I could not forsake my Marie. 
On the other, what would a young Hussar do 
with marriage ? At last, hard - pressed, I 
begged ihehftNt^Uhi'/i- the matter, if it were 
only for a day. 

" I will see Marie," said I j " I will see 



her without delay. It is her heart and her 
happiness which come before all else.'* 

They were not satisfied, these grumbling 
old people, but they could say no more. 
They bade me a short good night and 1 
departed, full of perplexity, for the inn. I 
came out by the same door which I had 
entered, and I heard them lock and bar it 
behind me* 

I walked across the field lost in thought, 

turned to a scythe, then, indeed, It was a bad 
day for the Emperor and France, Or should 
I harden my heart and turn away from Marie? 
Or was it not possible that all might be 
reconciled, that I might be a happy husband 
in Normandy but a brave soldier elsewhere ? 


with my mind entirely filled with the 
arguments of the old people, and the skilful 
replies which I had made to them. What 
should I do? I had promised to see Marie 
without delay. What should I say to her 
when I did see her? Would I surrender to 
her beauty and turn my back upon my pro- 
r -5$ion? If Eti^njie Gerard's sword were 

All these thoughts were buzzing in my head, 
when a sudden noise made me look up. 
The moon had come from behind a cloud, 
and there was the bull before me. 

He had seemed 2 large animal beneath the 

beech] f^^^kS) tfl^Pf' t?R" !, | a PP eared enormous. 
He was blact in colour. His head was 
held down, and the moon shone upon Iwq 



menacing and bloodshot eyes. His tail switched 
swiftly from side to side, and his fore-feet dug 
intothe earth. A more horrible-looking monster 
was never seen in a nightmare. He was 
moving slowly and stealthily in my direction. 

I glanced behind me, and I found that in 
my distraction I had come a very long way 
from the edge of the field. I was more than 
half-way across it. My nearest refuge was 
the inn, but the bull was between me and it 
Perhaps if the creature understood how little 
I feared him he would make way for me. I 
shrugged my shoulders and made a gesture 
of contempt. I even whistled. The creature 
thought I called it, for he approached with 
alacrity. I kept my face boldly towards him, 
but I walked swiftly backwards. When one 
is young and active one can almost run back- 
wards and yet keep a brave and smiling face 
to the enemy. As I ran I menaced the 
animal with my cane. Perhaps it would 
have been wiser had I restrained my spirit. 
He regarded it as a challenge — which, indeed, 
was the last thing in my mind. It was a 
misunderstanding, but a fatal one. With a 
snort he raised his tail and charged. 

Have you ever seen a bull charge, my 
friends ? It is a strange sight. You think, 
perhaps, that he trots, or even that he gallops. 
No ; it is worse than this. It is a succession 
of bounds by which he advances, each more 
menacing than the last. I have no fear of 
anything which man can do. When I deal 
with man I feel that the nobility of my own 
attitude, the gallant ease with which I face 
him, will in itself go far to disarm him. 
What he can do, I can do, so why should I 
fear him ? But when it is a ton of enraged 
beef with which you contend, it is another 
matter. You cannot hope to argue, to soften, 
to conciliate. There is no resistance possible. 
My proud assurance was all wasted upon the 
creature. In an instant my ready wit had 
weighed every possible course, and had deter- 
mined that no one, not the Emperor him- 
self, could hold his ground. There was but 
one course — to fly. 

But one may fly in many ways. One may 
fly with dignity or one may fly in panic. I 
fled, I trust, like a soldier. My bearing was 
superb, though my legs moved rapidly. My 
whole appearance was a protest against the 
position in which I was placed. I smiled as 
I ran — the bitter smile of the brave man who 
mocks his own fate. Had all my comrades 
surrounded the field they could not have 
thought the less of me "when they saw the 
disdain with which I avoided the bull. 

But here it is that I must make my 

confession. When once flight commences, 
though it be ever so soldierly, panic follows 
hard upon it. Was it not so with the Guard 
at Waterloo? So it was that night with 
Etienne Gerard. After all, there was no one 
to note my bearing — no one save this 
accursed bull. If for a minute I forgot my 
dignity, who would be the wiser? Every 
moment the thunder of the hoofs and the 
horrible snorts of the monster drew nearer 
to my heels. Horror filled me at the thought 
of so ignoble a death. The brutal rage of 
the creature sent a chill to my heart. In an 
instant everything was forgotten. There 
were in all the world but two creatures, the 
bull and I — he trying to kill me, I striving 
to escape. I put down my head and I ran 
— I ran for my life. 

It was for the house of the Ravons that I 
raced. But even as I reached it, it flashed 
into my mind that there was no refuge for 
me there. The door was locked ; the lower 
windows were barred ; the wall was high 
upon either side ; and the bull was nearer 
me with every stride. But, oh, my friends, it 
is at that supreme moment of danger that 
Etienne Gerard has ever risen to his height. 
There was but one path to safety, and in an 
instant I had chosen it. 

I have said that the window of Marie's 
bedroom was above the door. The curtains 
were closed, but the folding sides were 
thrown open, and a lamp burned in the 
room. Young and active, I felt that I could 
spring high enough to reach the edge of the 
window-sill and to draw myself out of danger. 
The monster was within touch of me as I 
sprang. Had I been unaided I should have 
done what I had planned. But even as in a 
superb effort I rose from the earth, he butted 
me into the air. I shot through the curtains 
as if I had been fired from a gun, and I 
dropped upon my hands and knees in the 
centre of the room. 

There was, as it appears, a bed in the 
window,, but I had passed over it in safety. 
As I staggered to my feet I turned towards 
it in consternation, but it was empty. My 
Marie sat in a low chair in the corner of the 
room, and her flushed cheeks showed that 
she had been weeping. No doubt her 
parents had given her some account of what 
had passed between us. She was too amazed 
to move, and could only sit looking at me 
with her mouth open. 

" Etienne ! " she gasped. " Etienne ! " 

In arJN&I^NrttLff'JIViPlSPYfull of resource 
as ever. There was but one course for ^ 
gentleman, and I took it, 



" Marie/' I cried, " forgive, oh, forgive the 
abruptness of my return ! Marie, I have 
seen your parents to-night. I could not 
return to the camp without asking you 
whether you will make me for ever happy 
by promising to be my wife," 

It was long before she could speak, so 
, great was her amazement Then every 
emotion was swept away in the one great 
flood of her admiration. 

uses for one's lips. But there was a scurry in 
the passage and a pounding at the panels. 
At the crash of my arrival the old folk had 
rushed to the cellar to see if the great cider- 
cask had toppled off the trestles, but now 
they were back and eager for admittance. 
I flung open the door and stood with Marie's 
hand in mine. 

M Behold your son ! " I said. 

Ah, the joy which I had brought to that 

" 0h t Etienne, my wonderful 
Etienne ! " she cried, her arms 
round my neck* u Was ever such 
love? Was ever such a man? 
As you stand there, white and 
trembling with passion, you seem 
to me the very hero of my dreams. 
How hard you breathe, my love ; and what a 
spring it must have been which brought you to 
my arms ! At the instant that you came I had 
heard the tramp of your war-horse without." 

There was nothing more to explain, and 
when one is n^wly betrothed on$ finds other 

"I RAN FOR *f¥ LIFE," 

humble household ! It warms my heait still 
when I think of it. It did not seem too 
strange to them that I should fly in through 
the wlHa^J^ftflibRSHcibld be a hot-headed 
suitor if it is not a gallant Hussar? And if 
the door be locked, then what way is there 




but the window ? Once more we assembled 
all four in the parlour, while the cobwebbed 
bottle was brought up and the ancient glories 
of the House of Ravon were unrolled before 
me. Once more I see the heavy-raftered room, 
the two old smiling faces* the golden circle 
of the lamp-light, and she, my Marie, the 
bride of my youth, won so strangely, and 
kept for so short a time, 


VoL jkL-34. 

It was late when we parted* The old 
man came with me into the hall. 

l * You can go by the front door or the 
back," said he. "The back way is the 

" I think that I will take the front way," I 
answered. u It may be a little longer, but it 
will give me the more time to think ol 
Marie*" Original from 






With Facsimiles from the Betting-Book of Wliite 3 Club* Reproduced 

by Special Permission. 


LIKE in the variety and 
extent of their wagers the 
gentlemen of England are, as 
compared with their prede- 
cessors, but a degenerate 
race* Who, for instance, 
would nowadays bet anything 
between five and a hundred guineas as to 
the number of his friend's children and the 
date of their arrival ? Yet there are literally 
hundreds of these wagers solemnly recorded 
in the Betting-Hook of White's, together with 
others dealing with almost every conceivable 
subject in heaven or earth. 

Here are two or three of a less common 
type, of which we give facsimiles of the 
original entries in the Betting- Hook* The 
first relates to a gentleman, presumably 
embarrassed, concerning whom a bet is 
recorded that he " does not from necessity 
part with his gold ice- [Jails before this day 

The nest concerns a certain baronet whose 
financial circumstances formed the subject 
of a bet between Lord Alvanley and Sir 
Joseph Copley* * ( If he is observed," so runs 
the Betting-Book, " to borrow small change 
of the chairmen or waiters Sir Joseph is to be 
reckoned to lose," 

Again the course of contemporary history 
may be traced in entries in the Betting- 
Book such as the next reproduction : " Mr. 
Butler bets Sir George Talbot twenty 
guineas to one that he is not in the room 
at White's with Napoleon in the course of 
the next two years. — April 24th, 181 5." 

Going back to an earlier period we find 
on October iSth, 1749, the next entry lure 
reproduced : " Col Waldegrave bets Lord 
March fifty guineas that his lordship does 
not win the chaise match. N.B, — I^ord 
Anson goes Col Waldegrave halves. Paid," 

This brings us to a very famous wager and 
a very famous character— the Earl of March 

/L$~ K * f c^^^^ teH-fwi 

Si^&rj££*f *{ ** 




£*Z*^*L&^ $&&*™^ *U^/ ^^ 

Original from 


A member's ick-pails. 



/^tm <f Mbytes/ m &J^f/&»«? 'J&* &: 

/^b +.&&**&£ ' &'W07&rJ'/X4tf&t& 

ft ft APttf **g&£ J§ /&* 


facsimile: of the wagek regarding * x a certain baronet" who hay 


and Ruglen, better known by his later title 
of the Duke of Queensberry, and better 
still as " Old Q," A mighty gambler was his task, trying horse after horse and carriage 


reprobate. Yet one 
cannot help feeling 
a slight weakness 
for him on ac- 
count of his charm- 
ing letters to 
George Selwyn, 
which show that he 
was fond of at least 
one other person 
in the world beside 
h i m sel f. Whatever 
his lack of virtue, 
he did not suffer 
from lack of in- 
telligence, and to 
bet with him seems 
to have been to 
court disaster. 

The terms of the 
aforesaid " chaise 
match" were that 
Count Taaffe and 
another betted 
Lords March and 
Eglinton one thou- 
sand guineas that 
they could not 
provide a four- 
wheeled carriage 
to carry a man and 
be drawn by four 
horses nineteen 
miles in an hour. The Duke, as it is simpler 
to call him, took an infinity of trouble over 

e&s* £?&— 


his Grace of Queensberry, and, if his career 
be scanned with an entirely cold and im- 
partial eye, a thoroughly selfish and evil old 

/fin^jg^^ ?£J& 

after carriage, Wright, of Long Acre, was finally 
the happy man whose handiwork was selected 
horsebreaker's brake without the usual 






us/sea t t //&/ //tt, 



( *;/*fc*4* 

W-M$-&"" ^/^^^'' ^ j 


high perch, having oil -cans fixed to the boxes 
of the" wheels, and the pole and bars made of 
thin wood lapped with wire to strengthen 
them. The springs wore of steel, and the 
harness of silk and whalebone, and the total 
weight some two and a half hundredweight. 

On the zgth August, 1750, the carriage 
with its four chosen horses and postilions 
took the field at Newmarket before a pro- 
digious concourse of spectators, among 
whom a course was cleared by a horseman 
resplendent in red velvet. In the result the 
Duke's judgment was thoroughly vindicated, 
for the horses, fairly running away with their 
riders, actually covered the first four miles in 
nine minutes, and the total distance in six 
minutes and thirty - three seconds under 
the hour. 

His next successful wager was of a highly 
ingenious kind ; he betted that he would 

cause a letter to be conveyed fifty miles in 
the hour, a feat that sounded no doubt 
impossible enough to those unfortunate 
persons wbo took the bet. Not so, however, 
to his Grace, who enclosed the letter in a 
cricket ball and then stationed a number of 
cricketers at fixed intervals to throw each other 
catches with the ball, which by this method 
covered many miles over the required fifty. 

On another occasion on which he was 
tempted to make a bet of somewhat similar 
character, the Duke very nearly caught a 
tartar in a certain Mr. EdgwortL Indeed, 
if Mr. Edg worth had only been as discreet 
as he was ingenious, he and his friends would 
have plundered their viciirn to their hearts* 
content The Duke declared that by means 
of relays of swift horses the result of a certain 
race at Newmarket w T ould be known to him 
at nine o'clock at night. 

Ftwn a Print t* iht j**t?**wi\ vf ike ClttL ' 



" Oh," said Edgworth, " I expect to know 
it at four." 

This was too much for the Duke, and he 
made several bets of five hundred pounds 
each with Edgworth and his friends. Alas ! 
however, for the indiscretion — or was it only 
the transparent honesty ? — of Mr. Edgworth. 
When they met next day at the Turf Coffee 
House to reduce the bet to writing, Edgworth, 
who had in his mind a system of semaphores, 
blurted out that he did not mean to rely 
upon horses. The Duke instantly realized 
that there were some things undreamed of in 
his philosophy, and declined to proceed with 
the bet 

Once again he was all but beaten only 
to slave himself with characteristic energy 
and astuteness. He noticed one day a 
journeyman coach-builder trundling a wheel 
and doing so with great skill and rapidity. 
He was also acquainted with a certain 
waiter at Betty's fruit-shop in St. James's 
Street who was fi famed for his running." 
One cannot help surmising that this fame was 
rather easily earned or else the coach-builder 
must have been a very wonderful fellow, for 
the Duke backed him to run with the hind- 
wheel of the ducal carriage faster than the 
waiter, who was not even to be encumbered 
with a pile of plates. So well satisfied was 
he that he would win his money that he did 
not have a trial with this particular wheel till 
the day before the match, when, to his horror, 
he discovered that it was much lower than 
the wheel which the coach-builder usually 
trundled, and so sadly diminished his pace. 
Here was a pretty quandary, but the Duke 
was no to be beaten. He borrowed a large 
number of planks from a friend in the Board 
of Works and engaged an army of workmen. 
All night the workmen toiled by the light of 
the moon, and in the morning there was 
ready a pathway of planks, by means of 
which the wheel was brought up to the 
requisite height. The Jockey Club on appeal 
allowed this rather curious proceeding, and 
the race was run, with the result that Betty's 
waiter lost the race and his backers their 

One more bet of " Old Q.'s " deserves men- 
tion — a bet of a thousand guineas with Sir 
John. Lade that he would find a man to eat 
more at one sitting than Sir John's nominee. 

Sir John's understanding appears to have 
been at fault on this occasion, and he 
lost his money. There is something very 
engaging in the report forwarded to the 
Duke by the agent whom he had appointed 
to watch the match in his absence : — 

" I have not time to state particulars, but 
merely to acquaint your Grace that your 
man beat his antagonist by a pig and an 
apple pie." 

If one could win such a match by the 
margin of a pie it seems almost needless 
ostentation to beat tbe enemy by a pig as 

From Sir John Lade we may turn to 
another member of the extraordinary band 
that had its headquarters at the Pavilion at 
Brighton — Richard, seventh Lord Barrymore. 
That he inherited some little talent in the 
direction of wagering is clear from a story of 
his father — Richard, the sixth Earl. This 
worthy, being in great financial straits, 
spent some time care&illy covering the floor 
of a room with playing cards, or, according 
to another account, with halfpence. He 
then invited a party of friends to dine in the 
same room, and, at an appropriately late 
hour of the evening, offered to bet five 
hundred pounds that he would guess more 
nearly than anyone else the number of cards 
(or halfpence) that would cover the floor. 
As his biographer remarks, " It is unnecessary 
to record the name of the winner," and Lord 
Barrymore's circumstances became tem- 
porarily less embarrassed. 

With this promising ancestry the seventh 
Earl was likely to have a weakness for wager- 
ing, but he appears to have been more honest 
than his father, if less successful. One of 
his bets was made with the Duke of York at 
Brighton, to the effect that he could wade 
farther into the sea than the Duke. Instantly 
they walked down to the shore from the 
pavilioQ and plunged into the sea in all 
their fine clothes. The Duke of York, 
however, had not paid enough attention to 
the fact that he was not so tall as Lord 
Barrymore, and as he did not want to be 
drowned he had to pay. 

Besides being a great coachman and 
patron of the ring, Lord Barrymore was 
something of an athlete and cricketer. He 
captained several elevens that played matches 
for large sums, and ran a famous race in 
Kensington Gardens— sixty yards with a turn 
round a tree— against Captain Parkhurst, the 
latter being mounted. He also wanted to 
race the Bath coach from Hyde Park Corner 
to Hammersmith, but the odds apparently 
were not forthcoming that should make it 
worth his while. 

In this matter of running, however, Lord 
Barrymore, who was so fond of deceiving 
others that he founded a club called the 
" Humbug Club,' was once entirely bam- 



hrx>zled by a friend of his, by name, appro- 
priately enough, Bullock. Mr. Bullock, 
who was a very stout gentleman, weighing 
some vast number of stone, offered to run 
K anymore a hundred yards race f provided 
he had thirty five yards start and might 
choose his own course. Great excitement 
prevailed at Brighton, and the Prince of 
U'ales anxiously inquired where the race was 
to be run, that he might come and see it 
With every respect for Royalty, however, 
Mr. Bullock declined to disclose his plan of 

country against the American negro, and 
put some ten thousand pounds into Captain 
Barclay's pocket* 

Barclay was a man of prodigious strength 
and powers of endurance, and his many 
feats would fill a book. In 1806, when m 
Suffolk with the 23rd Regiment, he backed 
himself for a thousand guineas to lift half a 
ton from the ground, and did in fact lift 
twenty-one half-hundredweights. VV'iih a 
straight arm he threw half a hundredweight a 
distance of eight yards and threw the same 

campaign till the appointed hour, when he weight over his head five yards. He also 

led the way to a 
narrow little alley in 
which there was 
scarcely room to walk. 
In less than no time 
Barrymore had 
gained his thirty -five 
yards and was up with 
his man, but then his 
difficulties began. By 
no possible means 
could he pass, for 
Mr. Bullock hurled 
himself from side to 
side in his exertions 
and filled up the 
whole of the alley, 
It was in vain that 
the giver of the start 
tried to dodge past; 
and Mr. Bullock 
waddled in first, the 
winner of a very com- 
fortable sum. 

Among those who 
flourished in the days 
of the Prince Regent 
there was a much 
greater runner and a 
much more reputable 
person than Ix>rd 
Barrymore — the 
famous Robert Bar- 
clay Allardyce, of 
by the name under 
Ca ptai n Ba r cl ay. H e 


Ury, better 
which he 


was a very serious 
athlete and a great authority on training, on 
which subject he wrote a book. He trained 
Tom Cribb for his second fight with 
Molyneaux, and taking the champion to Ury, 
his Aberdeenshire home, put him through so 
strenuous a course of physic and exercise 
that Tom declared nothing would induce 
him to endure it again. However, Tom 
jumped into the ring a miracle of fitness, 
successfully defended the honour of his 

lifted a man weigh- 
ing eighteen stone 
from the floor to the 
table, the man stand- 
ing upon the cap- 
tain's right hand and 
being merely steadied 
with his left Sir 
Francis Gal ton tells 
in his reminiscences 
that he remembers 
Captain Barclay when 
quite an old man 
lifting Sir Francis's 
brother in the same 
way, although he had 
to admit afterwards 
that he had strained 
himself somewhat in 
the accomplishment 
of the feat 

Among his pedes- 
trian ac h i e vern en ts 
was the covering of 
ninety miles in 
twenty-one and a half 
hours. This he 
backed himself to do 
for five hundred 
guineas, but broke 
down in training. 
Again he tried, and 
became so sick as 
to have to give up the attempt after sixty- 
seven miles. Nothing daunted, he then 
raised the stakes to five thousand guineas, 
and set out once more on a measured mile 
on the road between York and Hull. He 
began at midnight clad in a flannel shirt 
and trousers and, of all odd garments, a 
night-cap, while lamps were placed at regular 
intervals along the road to light him on his 
way. This time all went well and he won 
with an hour and s;even minutes to spare. 

H \% N MAWA UNW** S*fli ie** men t, however, 
was that of walking a thousand fniles in a 



thousand consecutive hours on Newmarket 
Heath for a bet of a thousand guineas. He 
started on June 1, 1809, walking, as we 
are told, with an easy, lounging gait, and 
sliding his feet over the ground rather than 
lifting them. Between the miles he would 
go to sleep or lie on a sofa and talk to 
his friends. His ideas of training were 
rather different from those of to-day, for the 
amount of alcohol he consumed sounds to 
us prodigious. According to the Sporting 
Magazine he would have " good strong ale " 
with his breakfast at five, and more of it with 
his luncheon. He dined at six with yet 
more ale and two glasses of port wine, and 
he drank ale again for supper, while he kept 
himself going with Madeira and water between 
meals. So deeply interested were the people 
of Newmarket in his success that they vied 
with each other in providing him with their 
own ale as being better than that supplied 
from the public inns. 

Gradually the hours wore away, and the 
London betting on the gallant captain rose 
to five to one. At one time his backers 
received the dismal intelligence that the 
sinews in his legs were so much strained 
that it took him over twenty minutes to cover 
a mile, but the strain passed, and eight days 
from the end the betting at Tattersall's was 
ten to one. As the final day approached 
Newmarket was invaded by a huge crowd, 
and there was no bed to be had for love or 
money. The track had to be roped off, much 
to the annoyance of Barclay, who disliked 
this parade, and finally he ended his task 
amid the natural enthusiasm of those who 
are said to have won a hundred thousand 
pounds over the result. Moreover, he was 
so little distressed that almost immediately 
afterwards he was able to sail with the army 
on the ill-fated expedition to Walcheren. 

It is satisfactory to know that in spite of 
these feats Captain Barclay lived to a 
green and respected old age, and it was only 
the kick of a horse that could kill him in 
the year 1854. 

From this Scotsman, sober, long-headed, 
and businesslike, we may pass to a very 
different type of sportsman— a very gallant 
fellow in his own way — the celebrated " Jack " 
Mytton of Halston. Save that merely for 
his own pleasure he once went without 
sleep for two days and three nights, during 
which he shot, danced, and walked an in- 
credible number of miles, Captain Barclay, 
as a rule, only essayed a feat when he had 
a reasonable number of guineas to gain. 
Mytton, on the other hand, would do the 

most madcap things on the spur of the 
moment, with no prospect but that of a 
broken neck. He would ride at impossible 
fences crying, "Now for the honour of 
Shropshire." He would swim his horse over 
the Severn in flood, or put his tandem at a 
five-barred gate. He shot duck on a winter 
night with never a stitch of clothing, and set 
his shirt on fire with nothing to gain but a 
highly problematical cure for the hiccups, 
and even so nothing could kill him but an 
ineradicable taste for port wine. 

Perhaps, however, his most famous achieve- 
ment was done for a bet of one hundred and 
fifty pounds. He was dining with some 
friends at Cronkhill, some distance from 
Halston, and came in his tandem. After 
dinner someone spoke of driving tandem as 
a dangerous pursuit. Mytton was up in 
arms at once, and offered to bet twenty-five 
pounds all round that he would there and 
then drive his tandem half a mile across 
country to the turnpike road, taking on his 
way a deep drain, a sunk fence, and two 
quickset hedges. 

There was a fine moon ; twelve men with 
lanterns fastened on poles were employed 
to supplement the moonlight, and Mytton 
started on his adventurous journey. First 
came the sunk fence, and into it went horses, 
driver, and all. A gradual slope on the far 
side saved him, however ; by dint of the 
whip he got his team safely out and sent 
them at full speed at the deep wide drain. 
This they cleared, but the jerk of landing 
sent Mytton sprawling on to the. wheeler's 
back. He crawled back to his seat, however, 
and attacked the quickset hedges. Both 
these he cleared most gallantly, arrived safe 
and sound on the turnpike road, and drove 
home to Halston. 

His achievements in the saddle were 
numberless. On his horse " Hero ,; he 
cleared a gate seven feet high, and it is to be 
remembered that he was a tall, heavy man. 
He jumped another horse, " Baronet," over 
nine yards of water on his way home from 
hunting, and afterwards backed himself for 
five hundred guineas to clear nine yards over 
hurdles on the same horse. He accom- 
plished this often in practice, but when it 
came to the appointed day M Baronet " 
refused, and he lost his money, as he 
ultimately lost every shilling that he could 
lay his hands on. 

Poor Mytton ! his end was a miserable 
one. He d?ed at the age of thirty-seven in 
the Kind's Benc^kiErcaprfT-.ja wreck of mind 
and body. His many failings were all too 



obvious, but he had such glorious pluck 
that one can almost echo the words of Sir 
Bellingham (iraham, as My t ton cleared a 
high park- paling with his arm in a sling, 
u Well done, neek-or-nothing. You are not 
a bad one to breed from." 

A feat that would have been one after 
Jack My t ton's heart was that performed by 
the famous Buck Whalley, who on another 
occasio: won fifteen thousand pounds by 
journeying from Dublin to Jerusalem and 
back within a stated time. Whalley backed 
himself to jump over a carrier's cart on 
horseback, and accomplished the feat by the 
ingenious means of "taking off" from the 
upper storey of a house. 

Another bet of the same dashing character 
was made by a Mr* Manning, a spurting 
farmer, in 1851, He rode his horse bare- 
backed into the dining-room of an inn at 
Aylesbury and successfully cleared a dinner- 
table in its full dress — lights, dishes, de- 
canters, and all. The feat was thus described 
in the Bucks Chronicle at the time :— 

u The feat reminds one of an incident 

company were then assembled, which was 
once done by Lord Jocelyn and Mr. Kicardo, 
during the meeting of the Royal Hunt some 
few years ago, Mr, Charles Syrnonds, of 
Oxford, offered to bring a grey horse of his 
upstairs and lead him round the table* The 
animal shortly announced his progress by a 
loud clattering on the old oak staircase- In 
a few minutes the horse was gazing on the 
assembled company. His owntr then led 
him over a flight of chairs, which he jumped 
beautifully- Nothing then would satisfy the 
company but that he must jump the dining- 
tables. The proprietor of the hotel, fearing 
lest some serious accident might occur, as 
the room is of great antiquity, having been 
built by the Ear) of Rochester in the time of 
Charles II, , strongly objected ; but he was 
overruled, and the horse was led over the 
tables, everything standing. The chain pagne 
glasses rattled, the plates quivered, the 
candlesticks shook, but nothing was dis- 
placed ; back again he went, clearing every- 
thing at a bound. Whereupon Mr, Manning, 
of Wendover, volunteered to ride him bare- 

Frvm J/cmcn ri yf the Life vf the late John My&mi of II ul it w, Skrvpthin/ ftp iftmral 

in the life of Mr. John My t ton, of sport- 
ing fame. The following are the details of 
the present fear At the stewards' ordinary, 
at the White Hart Hotel, Aylesbury, after 
the late aristocratic steeplechases, the con- 
versation turning on the feat of bringing a 
horse up into the dining-room in which the 

backed over, and he did so without bridle or 
saddle. The celebrated gentleman jock, 
Captain Barlowe, next essayed, and managed 
to make a smash of one table with its 
contents, This was only a temporary check; 
for, i|ia| [ the.iV^tpf» fire, and the 
cheeTOW' 4 aH N l4E^t f he achieved the feat 



gallantly. It was now time to desist, and to 
get the horse downstairs ; this was sooner 
said than done, for the stairs and passages 
being kept polished, the gallant grey slipped 
about dreadfully, and was evidently afraid of 
the descent. At length, at the suggestion of 
a worthy Baronet, he was blindfolded, and 

—that he did it. Next day Mr, Bulpeit 
duly appeared at the Ship immaculately 
dressed in a frock-coat and tall hat and 
carrying a walking-stick. He got across 
with great ease, although the tide carried him 
down over a mile, and so little distressed was 
he that he instantly offered the same odds that 


thus descended into the entrance-hall, but 
managed to break about a dozen of the 
carved oak banisters in his progress." 

In quite modern times people do not seem 
so anxioas to do these extraordinary tilings. 
The Cambridge undergraduate no longer 
backs himself to run round the great court 
of Trinity while the college clock strikes 
twelve, nor to jump up the flight of stone 
steps in front of the hall — this latter a very 
considerable athletic feat which is said to 
have been accomplished by the great Charles 
Stuart Calverley when he was an under- 
graduate. There has been one really wonderful 
achievement, however, in quite modern 
limes, of which the author of *' Light Come, 
Light Go," gives an interesting account* A 
friend of his, Mr, Bulpett, was one day 
dining at the Ship at Greenwich when 
a discussion arose as to the difficulty of 
swimming the Thames in ordinary clothes. 
Mr, Bulpett promptly laid four to one — one 

hundred pounds to twenty -five pounds 
VoL x|— 35. 

he would there and then swim back again, 
There were, however, no takers to be found, 

Mention must now be made of the 
driving match between Lord Lonsdale and 
Lord Shrewsbury, which made almost as 
great a stir in iStjr as "Old Q.'s" "chaise 
match Jt had done over a century before. 
The match was to have been over twenty 
miles, five miles being allotted to each of 
four methods of driving — single, pair, four-in- 
harid, and postilion, Unfortunately, how- 
ever, some misunderstanding arose, and Lord 
Shrewsbury at the last moment paid forfeit 
Thereupon Lord Lonsdale, having moved 
numberless horses and carriages at i^reat 
expense, and desiring, moreover, to give the 
public a run for their money, decided to 
drive over the course in order to show what 
he could do. 

The weather was most unpropitious — a 
bitterly l^ttt^UNIttfiaff^wiih the addition 
of a recent heavy fall of snow. However, a 
snow plough was borrowed from the lof 



authorities and the appointed strip 
of five miles on the Reigate road 
was duly cleared. Couriers galloped 
in front to dear the road, and, save 
for one restive dray-horse and two 
policemen, who wisely got out of 
the way after making a formal pro- 
test, no obstacles were met with, As 
a small piece of evidence of the 
trouble taken by Lord Lonsdale 
over the match, each of his four 
carriages contained a carefully - 
synchronized clock and a pair of 
large blue spectacles, the latter of 
which proved enormously useful, 
since Lord Lonsdale was simply 
bespattered with mud from head 
to Toot, 

First came the single horse, who 
covered the five miles in thirteen 
minutes thirty -nine and one- fifth 
seconds, a time that would have 
been considerably reduced but for 
the dray-horse aforesaid. Leaping 
out of one bugj^y into another, like 
a flash of lightning Lord Lons- 
dale was off again with hisfpair in 
three seconds. These gat-^ora^ 
the ground at a great pace, 
and when they dashed up steam- 

ing hot, their driver plastered with mud, 
ten miles had been covered in twenty- 
six minutes thirty - three and three - fifth 

Next came that which must naturally be 
the slowest part of the business, the four-in- 
hand, but it took no longer than a few 
seconds over the quarter of an hour, and 
now, barring accidents, the twenty miles 
would surely be done under the hour. Lord 
Lonsdale hurled off his covert coat, jacket, 
and hat, and leaped, postilion fash ion, on 
to the back of one of his pair. All went 
well over the last five miles, and when Lord 
Lonsdale pulled up he had covered the 
twenty miles in fifty-six minutes fifty five and 
four- fifths seconds — considering the rather 
heavy going, a truly wonderful performance. 

Finally, the pictures reproduced on the 
present page -how the result of a most 
amusing wager with striking effect — seven 
men buttoned into the waistcoat of a Brob- 
dingnagian named Edward Bright ! 

iew of I) ing thi T Wager b&tCeen Mr. Corfd and Mr: 
Hani* btMuhfan in lite Caitnlij of Efw'x* wtuth u 
Mm Mere actually with ymrietm* on tlte first d<tii of Dec 

Hull in Maldon 
]J/r. Jiriij/ii de ceased* 



One Luckl 






Illustrated by Steven Spurrier. 


E stood upon the edge of the 
lawn at Ascot, looking towards 
the band, apparently listening 
to the music, in reality seeing 
nothing, hearing nothing, 
realizing only the slow torture 
of a live and sickly fear. To 
the casual observer the Honourable Ralph 
Fausitt looked all that a fashionable young 
man of good breeding, education, and parent- 
age should look. His clothes were selected 
with unerring taste, and he wore them with 
that air of distinction which was presumably 
an inheritance from a long line of aristocratic 
forbears, coupled with a devotion to athletics 
which until lately had been paramount in 
his life. He was sufficiently well-off; he 
had already received at least half-a-dozen 
invitations to luncheon ; he had never in 
his life made a bet which he could not 
afford to lose ; the paddock was full of his 
friends, and the prettiest girl there, to whom 
— at any rate, up to a month ago — he had 
been devoted, was even at that moment 
sitting anxiously in her box awaiting a visit 
from him. Yet all these things counted for 
nothing, and less than nothing. In his eyes 
was the nameless terror of a man who has 
never felt a twinge of cowardice, who feels 
fear now for the first time. The flower- 
decked lawn was a barren waste. Life had 
become, during the last twenty-four hours, an 
ugly phantasm, a scarlet terror. Before his 
eyes seemed to float the memory of a 
tiny room, a luxurious, over-furnished, bijou 
chamber in a toy palace, and there upon 
the soft green carpet, with a broken 
ornament by his side, always the central 
figure, a dead man, the body of a man 
lying there white and still, a man killed by 
his hand. Already outside the gates news- 
paper boys were probably calling out the 
news : " Horrible murder in the flat of a 
celebrated actress ! " . He fancied that even 
where he stood he could hear their voices, 
the raucous relish of their cry. He was a. 

murderer ! It was for him that Scotland 
Yard in a few hours would be sending out 
far and wide their greyhounds of the chase, 
against him that the whole wonderful 
machinery of their elaborate system would 
be set at work. How could he hope to 
escape ? What chance was there for one so 
ignorant, so young in crime ? Already he 
was giving himself aw r ay every minute. The 
most harmless of policemen sent a shiver of 
fear through him. What chance was there 
when the hunt should begin in earnest? 
None — absolutely none ! 

A hand fell upon his shoulder. The voice 
was the voice of a friend, yet he started as 
though be had been shot. 

" Why, Ralph, old chap, you look as 
though you'd been backing the wfrong 'uns, 
and no mistake," the new-comer remarked, 
carelessly. "What's up with you? Why 
haven't you been up to luncheon?" 

Fausitt turned slowly round. He was still 
shaking, and his friend's casual interest was 
quickly changed inta something like amaze- 

" Why, what in thunder's the matter with 
you, man?" he exclaimed, dropping his voice 
a little. " You look as though you were 
seeing ghosts." 

41 I've a headache," Fausitt stammered ; 
44 the sun, I suppose— and you startled me." 

His friend — Captain Guy Darnell, of the 
Argylls — whistled softly under his breath. 
He was a young man of resource, and he 
came to a rapid decision. 

44 What you want is a drink," he declared, 
44 and I should say that you wanted it quick. 
Come along." 

Fausitt suffered himself to be led away. 
Yes, he needed a drink — anything to drown 
the torture of these grisly memories 1 

44 Netta's been asking for you," Darnell 
remarked 'as they strolled along the gravel 
path. ( She said that you promised to take 
her into the paddock." 

Fausitt almost groaned. He could see 



Netta sitting in a corner of the box, waiting, 

a trifle wistful, too proud to complain, but 

still feeling his neglect. Dear little Netta ! 

He began to wonder drearily if there had 

ever been a moment in his life when he 

had not been in 

love with her. If 

only he could 

wipe out this last 

month of small 

follies— above all, 

these last few 

hours of supreme, 


idiocy 1 He had 

held everything 

in his hands ; he 

had thrown life 

itself away to 

gratify a moment's 


" I am going 
up presently/* he 
muttered, fever- 
ishly, " I hadn't 
forgotten. There 
was a man I 
wanted to speak 


Darnell said 
no more for the 
moment, although 
his eyebrows rose 
a little curiously 
when he saw 
Fausitt dispose 
of his tumbler of 
brandy and soda- 
water at a single 
gulp. They made 
their way outside 
again. Darnell 
passed his arm 
through his 

41 Look here, 
old chap," he 
said, " I am going 
to talk like an 
ass. Just listen 
to me, though, there's a good fellow," 

Fausitt nodded indifferently. They had 
just passed a policeman, and he was shivering 
all over, 

M It's about Netta," her brother continued, 
pausing to light a cigarette, t( Now, we've 
always been. pals, of course, Ralph/' he con- 
tinued, taking his companion's arm again, 
"and I've alw T ays been jolly glad to have you 

» ^*^v^_^_^ 


round so much, and so thick with NetteL 
She's a nice little thing— although she's my 
sister — and I've something to say about her. 
Don't think I'm a prig, old chap, but here 
goes. You'll have to chuck going about with 

a so much adver- 
tised young lady 
as Mile. Lafere if 
you're going to 
keep on making 
the running with 

Fausitt nodded 
in a spiritless 

" Is that all, 
Guy?" he asked 
K Not quite," 
Darnell replied- 
u Yo u know, 
Ralph, I'm not 
setting up for 
being a saint, or 
anything of that 
sort, but, dash it 
all, I think that 
class of people 
need keeping in 
their places. I 
was jolly glad to 
find you alone 
just now, and if 
you think of 
coming up to see 
Netta, as I hope 
you do, why, then, 
just give Mile, 
Nina the go-by 

"What the 
mischief do you 
mean ? " Fausitt 

"Sony I didn't 
m ak e my sel f c lear , 
old fellow/' Dar- 
nell answered, 
" I'll have an- 
other shot at iL 
If you're going 
to be seen about this place with Mile. Nina 
I^afere, I'd rather you didn't come up to see 
Netta— that's all." 

Fausitt laughed. It wasn't at all a pleasant- 
sounding laugh ; there w$s nothing which 
even suggest t J mirth about it* 

4 <\fHMW^ about that, 

Guy," he replied ; "Mile. Nina won't be here 

tillOUUWK . . . 




Darnell shrugged his shoulders. 

"Well, I'm glad to find that you didn't 
bring her, old chap," he answered; "but as 
for her not being here — well, Tve just passed 
her in the paddock, not ten minutes ago," 

Fausitt was almost past any further dis- 
play of emotion. Nevertheless, he sat down 
abruptly u[>on an empty seat. His cheeks 
were livid, his eyes were hot and burning. 
Mile. Nina here! The thing was incredible. 

61 You don't mean it, Guy ? " he muttered, 
"You don't mean to tell me that she is 

" She's here, right enough," Darnell assured 
him. " She favoured me with a most gracious 
bow, I ran into Somerville and her talking 
together just outside the subway." 

There was a short silence, Darnell was 
watching his friend more curiously than ever* 

demanded) laying his hand upon the other's 
shoulder. " There's no one within hearing, 
and you can trust me — you know that. Out 
with it* 

" I must tell someone/' Fausitt answered, 
thickly, " or go mad. Here goes," 

He took off his immaculate silk hat. His 
forehead was wet with perspiration, yet as 
he sat there he shivered — shivered though 
the blazing sun fell upon his uncovered head. 
When he began to speak the words seemed 
to tumble from his mouth. 

" I have killed a man, Guy— shot him 
through the heart — last night ! He is dead ; 
I murdered him ! " 

Darnell drew a little away. Incredulity 
and horror struggled together in his face, 

u You are not serious, Ralph ? " he gasped. 

u Shot him through the heart," Fausitt 


By degrees he had come to understand that 
this was no ordinary fit of nerves, no ordinary 
indisposition with which Fausitt was afflicted. 
The music rose and fell, the breeze rustled 
pleasantly in the trees, there was a murmur 
of cheerful voices, and much laughter around 
them. But tragedy sat by his side upon that 
seat, and Darnell recognized it. He, too, 
had grown a little paler. The June sunshine 
had lost its warmth for both of them. 

" What's wrong, Ralph, old man ? " he 

repeated, with dull reiteration. " I saw him 
fall, saw the blood come through his coat, 
Guy, don't ever kill a man if you can help 
it — it's ghastly !" 

They stared at one another, speechless for 
countless seconds, Darnell almost as livid 
now as his friend. At first he refused to 
credit his Qewptffc^ ttteftTft he saw the horror 
alive inlttf^AM^ paralyzing, 

and he believed. 

"Where was it?" he faltered 



"In Mile. Lafere's rooms," Ralph 

" Does anyone know ? " 

" She does. I suppose others do by now," 
Fausitt muttered. " She let me out after it 
was over." 

" And the — the man ? " Darnell asked. 

" I left him lying upon the floor." 

" Was there a quarrel ? " 

Fausitt nodded. 

" You know, I've been rather a fool about 
Mile. Nina," he said, slowly. " I didn't care 
a jot about her, but she was amusing to take 
round, and the fellows all envied me, and 
that sort of thing. There's something else 
I'd like to tell you, Guy, while we are about 
it, and it seemed to make her more attrac- 
tive in a way. She was straight — upon my 
word she was." 

" Go on," Darnell insisted " If you say 
so, that's good enough for me. Tell me how 
it happened." 

" Last night I fetched her from the theatre," 
Fausitt continued, "and we had supper 
together. Afterwards I took her home. In 
her rooms there was a man waiting — a 
Portuguese. Directly we entered the row 
began. You know, I can't understand their 
beastly language, but I could guess that he 
was jealous, and that it was about me. He 
went on talking till 1 didn't know where I 
was. At last he snapped his fingers in my 
face. She tried to get between us, and he 
pushed her away. Then I lost my temper 
and punched his head. He was coming for 
me like a madman — a great bull of a fellow, 
over six feet high, and as strong as a giant. 
You know I'm only just about again after 
influenza. Nina knew it too, and she pushed 
a little revolver into my hand and screamed 
at the man like a Paris gutter-child. He 
struck her across the cheek brutally. He was 
going to do it again — then I fired." 

" You hit him ? " Darnell whispered, 

"Just over the heart," Fausitt groaned. 
" He simply collapsed upon the floor. I 
saw — the blood. Nina pushed me out of 
the room. She locked the door and sent 
me off." 

" You think there is no chance ? You are 
sure that he is dead ? " Darnell asked. 

Fausitt shook his head with a gesture of 

" I shot at him deliberately," he answered. 
" I was only a few feet away." 

A race was just over, and the people were 
beginning to stream back again down the 
walks and on to the lawn. The band were 

remounting to their places. Darnell rose 
unwillingly to his feet 

" Ralph, old chap," he declared, " I must 
go and look the people up for a few minutes. 
I'll come back afterwards and sit with you, 
unless you'd rather be alone." 

" It's very good of you, Guy," Fausitt 
replied, drearily. " I think, if you don't 
mind — I won't if you'd rather not — I'd like 
to come and say good-bye to Netta." 

Darnell hesitated, but only for a moment. 

11 Come along in a few minutes," he said. 
"I had better get there first and just prepare 
them for your looking a bit queer." 

He patted his friend affectionately on the 
shoulder and strode off, swinging his field- 
glasses in his hand, trying to realize this 
thing, and failing utterly. Fausitt remained 
upon the seat, staring with glazed eyes at the 
apparition which confronted him. Darnell 
had spoken the truth, then. Not a dozen 
yards away Mile. Nina herself was sitting at 
a small table, talking to a man whom he 
himself had introduced to her not many 
evenings ago. She was a little paler than 
usual, perhaps, but otherwise there was 
nothing remarkable about her appearance. 
More than once he heard her laugh — 
the sound maddened him. There was 
a hollow ring about her mirth, perhaps, 
but to him it seemed ghastly. He rose to 
his feet and made his way unsteadily toward 
the table. Nina looked at him strangely. 
Her black eyes seemed larger than ever, her 
cheeks more pallid. She showed no signs 
of surprise. Probably, he reflected, someone 
had told her that he was there. The man 
by her side greeted him casually. Some 
foolish questions and answers passed between 
them. Then mademoiselle's escort, who was 
a man of the world, rose to his feet and bowed. 

"Mademoiselle will excuse me," he said, 
smiling. " We shall meet again, I trust." 

He passed away, leaving them alone. 
Fausitt took his place almost mechanically. 
Mile. Nina leaned towards him. 

" Why is it that you look at me like that ? v 
she murmured. 

" What are you doing here ? " he demanded. 
" How could you come ? " 

"Or you, then?" she replied. "What 
about you ? It is the same thing, is it not ?" 

" Does anyone know yet ? " he faltered. 

She shrugged her shoulders, opened her 
lips, and closed them again. She seemed to 
be in two minds as to how to answer his 


"No," she said at last; "as yet I do not 
believe that anyone knows." 



Her face had lost a little of its brilliant 
hardness ; she was looking at him now more 
kindly; her eyes were soft* as though the 
tears were not far away. 

" My God ! " he muttered, half to himself, 
" What made me do it ? What made you 
give me that accursed thing, Nina ? You 
could have called for help — anything sooner 
than that ! " 

She was looking down toward the point of 
her parasol 

" Monsieur Ralph/* she begged, " please to 
go now, There is someone here with whom 
I wish to speak* In ten minutes you will 

return. You promise ? It will perhaps be 
for the last time," 

"For the last time!' 1 Fausitt muttered, as 
he plunged into the crowd. 

He had meant to go at once to the 
Darnells' box, yet whenever he turned that 
way his courage failed him. To see Netta 
for the last time, to say good-bye to her 
before all these people— the agony of it was 
inconceivable* Perhaps after the races were 
over he might meet them coming out, might 
draw her aside for a single moment in the 
crush. Anything was better than a formal 
entry into the box, Lady Darnell's polite 




inquiries as to his headache, Guy's forced 
cheerfulness, Netta's serious, remonstrating 
eyes. She might even be piqued by his 
neglect, refuse to speak to him. He might 
have to come away without even a touch of 
her fingers. For the last time he turned away 
from the staircase. He would not go up ; he 
came to that decision finally. 

For something more than the ten minutes 
he wandered aimlessly about. Then he 
remembered his promise to Mile. Nina, and 
he turned back towards where he had left 
her. The lawn was crowded now with 
people sitting out taking wine and fruit 
under the trees, and he had forgotten exactly 
at which table she was. He came upon it 
quite suddenly. It was, indeed, the sound 
of her voice which first attracted him. He 
stood quite still ; his feet were rooted to the 
ground. He was absolutely unable to move 
another step. Then up went the earth and 
round the faces of the people, the tents, the 
pavilion, the whole panorama. Conversation, 
music, laughter, everything was merged into 
one dull humming, beating against his ears. 
For a moment the world was black. And 
then — he was sitting down at the table. 
They were both there — mademoiselle and 
the man, mademoiselle and the man whom 
he had killed ! Mademoiselle was holding a 
glass of wine to his lips. 

" Drink, Monsieur Ralph," she whispered. 
" Oh, I am sorry ! " 

He drank — afterwards he knew that it was 
champagne. Then he set the glass down, 
but he could not move his eyes from the 
man's face opposite. There were no such 
things as ghosts, he told himself. This was 
the man himself. His pallid skin, his sleepy 
eyes, his fiercely upturned moustache and 
unnaturally white teeth ; it was the man 
himself, no other. Mile. Nina's fingers were 
gripping his. A few people were looking at 
them curiously. Could they, too, see the 
man ? he wondered. Was he really a sub- 
stantial person, a human being, alive like the 
others ? 

" Monsieur Ralph," Mile. Nina continued 
in his ear, " it is my husband, this. He would 
speak to you now himself, but you do not 
understand. Last night we quarrelled 
together, it is true. He was jealous, and of 
you. It was absurd. He said cruel things, 
and I was angry, but there was no wish in 
my heart to kill. When I pushed the little 
revolver into your hand I never imagined 
but that you must recognize it. It is the 
one I use every night — always — at the 
music-hall, in my sketch. You remember 

now ? Ah, I can see that you remember ! 
The burglar comes from under the couch, 
and I shoot The cartridges are full of that 
red fluid ; there is no bullet They are made 
for me, these cartridges, in Paris. It was 
one of these which you used. I put it into 
your hand that you might frighten Miguel, 
my husband. We love one another, indeed, 
very dearly, but if I am alone for one week 
— oh, he is so jealous ! " 

She rested her hand upon her husband's. 
In broken French, and with many expressive 
gestures, he was doing his best to corroborate 
her words. Fausitt felt his breath come 
quickly. Again there was a little uncertainty 
about the faces, the hurrying waiters, the 
moving branches of the trees. The man 
spoke rapidly to mademoiselle in their own 
language, and she poured out more wine and 
passed it across the table. 

"Please drink this, Monsieur Ralph, and 
do not be angry with either of us," she begged. 
" It was cruel of my husband ; but he was so 
jealous, and I promised that I would not tell 
all at once, because he hoped that you would 
be frightened, as he was. But it was cruel 
Now you understand — it must be that you 
understand. You have not hurt anyone. 
My husband, he will shake hands with you, 
for we are all three to be the good friends, 
is it not so ? " 

Then Fausitt began t6 grasp the truth. 
All of a sudden he realized one of the great 
dramatic emotions. He came back from the 
shadows into the full warmth and vigour of 
splendid life. Again the blood was warm in 
his veins, the joy of existence a fire in his 
heart With every second his understanding 
of this thing became more intense. He was 
free ; he had killed no one ! Mile. Nina 
and her husband were two very delightful 
acquaintances who were passing with smiles 
and bows from his life — and Netta was 
waiting for him. He held out his glass, 
which Nina's husband, with a polite little 
gesture, filled. They all three drank 

" Monsieur et madame," Fausitt exclaimed, 
41 1 congratulate you upon your reconcilia- 
tion ! I drink to your very good health." 

" And Monsieur Ralph forgives ? " Mile. 
Nina murmured. " It was all so foolish, so 

Fausitt drained his glass and held out his 

" I'd Ofasrgiiiai f n anybody anything," he 


He was never quite sure of the way he 

went across the lawn, amongst the chairs, 



past the band, across the gravel path, and up 
the wooden staircase* People stared after 
him and made remarks— he had probably 
won a great bet ; he had heard some wonder- 
ful news, There was something, at any rate, 
quite extraordinary about the joyful haste 
with which this well-dressed young man 
pushed his way 
along, regardless 
alike of manners 
and safety. He 
threw open the 
door of the box. 
Opposite was 
Guy Darnell, 
pale and worried. 
Netta's blue eyes, 
as she half rose 
from her place, 
were full of plain- 
tive sympathy* 
Lady Darnell 
welcomed him a 
little coldly, a 
fact of which he 
was entirely un- 

* 4 1 have just 
been telling them 
all/' Darnell 
explained, labori- 
ously, "about 
your head, and 
that you are 
obliged to get 
back home. It 
seems to me as 
though you 
might possibly 
have another 
touch of the 
* flu ' coming." 

F a u s i t t 
laughed, and his 
friend stared at 
him as though he 
had taken leave 
of his senses, 

M My head- 
ache's gone!" he exclaimed "I never 
felt better in my life. I have come to 
make my most humble apologies and to 
beg Miss Netta, if it isn't too late, to take 
just one turn in the paddock with me" 

She arose at once with alacrity* 

" I am not sure that you deserve it," she 
answered, smiling. "I had nearly given 
you up. Guy's account was so pat lie tic, 


though, that we none of us had anything but 
sympathy left. According to him you were 
almost prostrate. !I 

" Worst of your brother, he does exaggerate 
so," Fausitt remarked, lightly. 

Guy, who was feeling a little dazed, followed 
them out on to the corridor, Fausitt leaned 
back towards him. 

" I was fooled/' he whispered. 
" I shot the fellow with made- 
moiselle's stage revolver — - you 
know, the beastly thing she uses at 
the Palace. I have just had a 
drink with the man and wished 
Mile, Nina fare- 

"By Jove, 
that's splendid ! " 
Darnell ex- 
claimed "Con- 
gratulations, old 
fullow ! " 

Fausitt grasped 
his friend's hand. 
"Keep them 
till I come back, 
old chap," he 

"What were 
you saying to 
Guy?" Netta 
asked him, as 
they descended 
the steps. 

" He was con- 
gratulating me 
upon something," 
Fausitt answered, 
leaning a little 
towards her. "I 
told him to wait 
— until we got 

She looked up 
at him and then 
suddenly away. 

"Bother the 
horses!" he whis- 
pered. "Let's go 
and sit under the trees and listen to the music;" 
Darnell watched them cross the lawn. 
Then he whistled softly to himself for 
several moments, drew a long breath of 
relief, and, turning back into the box, Tang 
the bell. 

" I am ©erg!m|j flfemiflome champagne," he 
cxplainM)|AH>>|jWltfiREIWed it when they 
come back." 

VoL *L~ 36. 


My Parents. 


which parent 

does the child 

owe most? 

Dots the ten- 


iich and 

loving senti- 
ment of the mother, or the 
more stern, practical mind 
and stronger nature of the 
father, have the greater 
influence upon its life and 
character? The problem is 
a difficult one to solve. Both 
influences are necessary, 
although an excess of either 
may, sooner or later, mar the 
child's happiness and career, 
The preponderance of 
opinion seems to be that 
it is the early seeds sown by the mother 
which bear the greater fruit. And, to a 
certain extent, this view is borne out hy men 
and women of to-day who have achieved 
fame. It is to their mothers that they seem 
to pay the more affectionate and generous 
tributes, as if to emphasize the time-honoured 
proverb, "One good mother 
is worth a hundred school- 
masters. 1 ' 

Listen to what Thomas 
Alva Edison says, for in- 
stance : — ■ 

" I did not have my 
mother long, but she cast 
over me an influence which 
has lasted all my life. The 
good effects of her early 
training I can never lose. 
If it had not been for her 
appreciation and her faith 
in me at a critical time in 
my experience I should 
never likely have become 
an inventor* I was always 
a careless boy, and with a 
mother of different mental 
calibre I should probably 
have turned out badly. But 

My penuijiiopi of Jffi*jnr. Cti&ierM. 


Fnm a Cwvrivht yh&tvpruph fey ttrniitnxm of tht 

her firmness, her sweetness, 
her goodness were potent 
powers to keep me in the 
right path. My mother was 
the making of me. The 
memory of her will always 
be a blessing to me*" 

There are at least three 
members of the Cabinet— 
viz., Mr. Haldane, Mr, Lloyd 
George, and Mr* John Burns 
— who confess to owing 
more to their mothers than 
to any other person* 

" Never was man more 
biassed in his parentage/' 
once said the War Secretary. 
"Their influence on my life 
and career is incalculable. 
My father is dead, but my 
mother is still with me, and the sight of 
her invariably reminds me of the valuable 
precepts which she always held before me, 
and which have so materially assisted me in 
the modelling of my life*" 

The early lives of the Chancellor of the 
Exchequer and the President of the Local 
Government Board ran on 
somewhat similar lines. 
Both were left fatherless at 
an early age, and both their 
mothers had a hard, bitter 
struggle to keep the home 
together and provide food 
and education for the future 
Ministers of the Crown. 

" My mother had a hard 
struggle to bring up her 
children/' says Mr. Lloyd 
George. "But she never 
complained, and never 
spoke of her struggle. It 
was not until long after 
that we were able to ap- 

Sreciate how fine had been 
er spirit in the hard task 
NMEF&ffiging up her father- 
less children. Our bread 
was ho m e-made. We scarcely 



ate fresh meat, and I re- 
member that our greatest 
luxury was half an egg for 
each child on Sunday morn- 

It is a picture which calls 
to mind that of Mr. John 
Burns helping his mother 
home with some washing at 
one o'clock in the morning, 
and saying, as they rested 
in the neighbourhood of 
the Houses of Parliament, 
" Mother, if ever I have 
health and strength, no 
mother shall have to work 
as you do, and no child do 
in life what I have to do." 
u Mother and wife— they are 
the best friends I ever had, 35 
he remarked not long ago. 
"Character and career— all is due to their 

guidance and 

Dr. T + J, 
Macnamara, on 
the other hand, 
pays generous 
tribute to the in- 
spiring memory 
of his fat her t 
and his father's 
friends : — 

11 My father's 
medals {he 
fought in the 
Crimea and 
afterwards went 
out with his 
regiment, the 
old Forty- 
Seventh, the 
Loyal North 
Lancashire^, to Canada, 
where I was horn) are 
amongst my dearest 
possessio n s, and fixed 
to my desk, as a sort of 
mascot, are two magic 
brass figures — the old 
shako regimental badge. 
I am proud of being 
the son of a man who 
fought in the trenches 
regimental B a ix? k before SebastopoL To 
which belonged to m y father and his corn- 

UK, MACNAMARA'S mdes _ gfeat k j nd)y 
FAT! I Eft — NOW USED & , , '! 

*v dr. macnamara generous, tenderhearted 
as a mascot. men — amongst whom I 

/torn d rhototp-apk bv Sharpies, 

was brought up in the 
barracks at Montreal, I owe 
practically everything. They 
made a man of me, far more 
than many schoolmasters 
ever did afterwards," 

It was a charming tribute, 
by the way, which Lord 
Rosebery paid to the model 
lives of his father and 
mother, when, in August, 
1S78, he took his bride, the 
only daughter and heiress 
of Raron Meyer de Roth- 
schild^ home to Dalmeny, 
where they were duly feted 
by the tenants* In oije of 
his short speeches of thanks, 
his lordship said : "That 
long and blameless married 
life carried on by the late 
Lord Rosebery and the Dowager Lady 
Rosebery on these estates makes my wife 
and myself feel that we have indeed a 
hard task before us to succeed those dear 
ones who were our predecessors. Never 
did man have nobler mother. When my 
father died she devoted herself entirely to 
her children- She was our constant com- 
panion, and happy indeed were those nursery 

Mention of the military atmosphere in 
which Dr. Macnamara was brought up calls 
to mind, a story told us not long ago by Sir 
William T re loan 

From a Photoffravh bit C. K&pfaff. 

From 0. Phv&oeraph bjf Eltivtt lL JYy. 




Awn a Photofrrafth bit St. 1 

V. Butbnde*. 


"My father/' said Sir 
William, *' came from Hel- 
ston, in Cornwall, and estab- 
lished the business of carpet 
manufacturer in Ludgate 
HilL I was sent to King's 
College School, and ulti- 
mately developed a desire 
for military life. I wished 
to enlist among the English 
supporters of Garibaldi, and 
asked my father to buy me 
a commission in a crack 
regiment * No/ he replied, 
' I will not buy you a com- 
mission, but you may enlist 
in the ranks if you like, 
and I will promise not to 
buy you out. 7 Thus he 
damped my military ardour, and led me to 
stick to business. Seldom has a father done 
his son such a good and profitable * turn J ,J 

Referring again, however^ to the influence 
of a mother in the making of a child, it would 
be rather curious to know how many people 
are of the* same opinion as Mr. Harry Furniss, 

* f I believe thoroughly/' says the well- 
known artist, " that men take after their 
mothers and daughters after their fathers. 
My own daughter is strangely like my 
mother, who was an exceptionally accom- 
plished woman, beloved by all who knew her 
— a model parent, a brilliant conversation- 
alist, endowed with great talent, yet modest 
withal. She was the best type of mid-Victorian 
mother. Strict, deeply religious, punctilious, 
caring only for the very highest products in 
literature and art 

Front a pay alyng by Sir Lawrence whrn a gtmtk. 

" As to any effect my mother had on my 
religious ttu>ught, I may say that in matters 
Sabbatarian she, being Scotch, had not, 
perhaps, a keen sense of the humorous, and, 
therefore, when one Sunday evening, after a 
day of church-going, Sunday-school, family 
prayers, and hymn-singing, she discovered me 
reading Ingersoll's * Mistakes of Moses/ she 
patted me on the back and said that she had 
never heard of that American divine, but 
that no doubt his teachings, though American 
in tone, were good. Now, had my dear 
mother understood Ingersoll, and taken that 
book away, I might by this time have been a 
country parson bothering artists for con- 
tributions for bazaars, and presiding over 
mothers* meetings.' 1 

Sir I^awrence Alma-Tadema tells a charm- 
ing story of how his mother was wont to 
wake him at five o'clock in 
the morning by pulling a 
string attached to his big-toe, 
in order that he might paint 
and draw before school 
hours, " I was deeply at- 
tached to her," he says. 
"She was a woman of strong 
character j and, when she was 
left with a family of small 
children and a very limited 
income on which to support 
and educate them, she bore 
herself with energy and 
courage Thanks to hor 
loving care, my childhood 
days were not unhappy," 
■ tadbma's -The best friend I ever 

had on earth," are the words 

Original ^ 


sir charies,santley's mother^ 

By permutitm of Afatrt. Itaac Pitman 

u my parents: 


FralA photograph*. 

which Sir Charles Santley uses when referring 
to his mother in " Reminiscences of My 
Life." He, too, studied his art in odd hours. 

" I was not fond of early rising/' he says, 
"but my enthusiasm in the musical cause 
made me turn out in time to have half an 
hour's fiddling before I left in the morning, 
and during the dinner-hour I generally suc- 
ceeded in devoting a quarter of an hour to 
practising my voice- I met with little 
encouragement; my father upbraided me 
with paying more attention to * notes' than 
to business, 51 

On the other hand, Mme. Patti speaks 
with affection and pride of the manner in 
which both her parents helped her in her 
ambitions* "My earliest recollections," says 
the famous prima donna, "are associated 
with the trials and triumphs of my parents 
on the stage* Child as I was, I wanted to 
help them out of their difficulties* I can still 
see my father's troubled, tear- dimmed face as 
he said to me, l No, little one, what you ask 
is impossible/ And when at last he con- 
sented*, and I made my first appearance in 
public (New York), a prima donna of seven 
summers, I remember that while the people 
were clapping and waving their handkerchiefs 
after I had sung in * Una Voce,' my dear 
father caught me up in his arms and kissed 
me, and my mother petted me as if I had 
done something very wonderful indeed. 1 
was in Hamburg in the summer of 1869, 
when they brought me a message that my 
father was no more* I was overwhelmed 
with grief, for I had lost not only a father, 
but a close and dear friend." 

In " The Story of My Life," Miss Ellen 
Terry says : — 

" I have a very dim recollection of anything 


that happened in the 
attic ** ■ — the theatrical 
lodgings of her parents 
in Glasgow — " beyond 
the fact that when my 
father and mother went 
to the theatre every night 
they used to put me to 
bed, and that directly 
their backs were turned 
and the door locked I 
used to jump up and go 
to the window. My * bed ' 
consisted of the mattress 
pulled off their bed and 
laid on the floor — on 
father's side. Both my 
father and my mother 
were very devoted parents 
(though severe at times, as all good parents 
are), but while mother loved all her children 
too well to make favourites, I was, I believe, 
my father's particular pet/* 

During the course of an interview Miss 
Ellen Terry said : "My parents were mainly 
responsible for my good fortune. They were 
exceedingly clever and conscientious, and 
spared no pains to bring out and perfect 
what talents I possessed. I believe I was 
my father's favourite, and, as a child, used to 
sleep all night holding his hand*" 

The mother of Mrs* Brown Potter was a 
woman of keen perception and high ideals* 
"Her great idea in the training of her 
children/ 1 she informed us, recently, " was to 

By pmnitxwH of Mam. Fitter Cnunn 



leave our minds free to think 
— dream and imagine for 
ourselves. She thought by 
this means not to limit our 
understanding, and she made 
a great impression on me as 
a child, always saying that 
the littleness of things and 
the narrowness of ideas of 
life were put into our minds, 
and we must ourselves work 
on and upward to an ever- 
widening ocean of thought 
and life. And our desire 
must be to have earnestness 
of heart and also the courage 
of our strong convictions." 

"Mather, admirably beau- 
tiful, looking like a Madonna, 
with her golden hair and her 
eyes fringed with such long lashes that she 
made a shadow on her cheeks when she 
bent her eyes. She would have given her 
golden hair, her slender white fingers, her 
tiny feet, her life itself in order to save 
her child." It is thus that Mme. Sarah 
Bernhardt refers to her mother when men- 
tioning an accident of her childhood, when 
the great tragedienne fell into the fire and 
severely burnt herself. 

It is a tribute to beauty of form, as well 
as beauty of heart, which calls to mind the 
fact that Mr. Plowden, the London magis- 
trate, considered his mother one of the most 
beautiful and graceful of women* 

** My mother/ 1 he says', in his piquant 
autobiography, "Grain or Chaff," "was a 
beautiful woman, of a type 
very rarely seen or met with, 
at least in northern climes. 
It was not only that every 
feature might have been 
traced with a Grecian chisel, 
or that her magnificent eyes 
and wealth of hair were 
black as the raven's wing. 
What specially distinguished 
her were the incomparable 
shape and pose of her head 
and the queenly grace and 
almost majesty of her appear- 

" Darling Mother. At the 
last moment I am told that 
my book requires a dedica- 
tion. Of course it does. 
This is it Your devoted 
Maud. 1 ' In this charming 
manner does that brilliant 

From a PhiAtjorafiK. 

dancer, Miss Maud Allan, 
commence " My Life and 
Dancing," and in the first 
pages of her autobiography 
she says :- — 

** I remember that when 
it was settled I should go 
to Berlin and take up my 
studies there, I said, with the 
egotism of a very young girl* 
* Some day, dear, you shall 
come to me over there, when 
I have made you proud of 
your daughter,' How well 
I remember her answer - If 
you are the most famous 
woman in the world, I shall 
never be able to love you 
better, for, Maudie dear, 
aren't you my baby ? J '* 
The wisdom of a father endeavouring to 
thwart his son's early ambitions is open to 
considerable question. 

Sir William Treloar's father was right ir- 
damping the ex-Lord Mayor's military ardour. 
On the other hand, the father of Sir Charles 
San t ley took a mistaken view when he 
characterized his son's musical practices as 
so much waste of time. The case of Mr, 
Martin Harvey furnishes an example of a 
father willing to further his son's early 
ambitions, and the gratitude and success of 
that son. 

** It gives me very great pleasure," says 
the actor, " to testify to the breadth of 
mind which always characterized my father's 
dealings in the matter of my occupation. His 
own profession was that of 
naval architecture, and it 
was his fond hope that 1 
should follow in his foot- 
steps — famous footsteps they 
were, as all the yacht-racing 
men know. But Nature had 
not fitted me for that career, 
and when I made up my 
mind to go upon the stage 
he was the first to help me 
in every possible way. He 
sought the advice of Sir 
W, S. Gilbert in the matter 
(he was at the time build 
ing a yacht for him), and 
on his advice I went to 
John Ryder to study elocu- 
]\ ffenri This did me a world 

INDIANA UNtfElSff* and l can ™^ 

mr. martin harvky\ FATHER. be sufficiently grateful to 
from* phvuwmJibgiL n . iVfrfcNi. my father for giving me 




the fine oppor- 
tunities he did 
for grounding 
myself in work 
which must 
have appeared 
to him at first 
strange and 

It was in a 
similar strain 
that Mr. E, 
Phillips Oppen- 
hdm wrote to 
us* "I feel that 
I must grate- 
fully acknow- 
ledge the en- 
and friendly 
attitude of my 
parents to- 
wards my earliest efforts in story .writing,'^ 
he says, " My father, although exceedingly 
anxious that I should join him in business, 
insisted upon paying for the publication of 
the first complete story I wrote, and my 
mother bought a typewriter for me and 
learnt to use it herself. It was, without doubt, 
their pleasure and interest in my earliest 
efforts which encouraged me to persevere." 

Mr, Bra m well Booth, who, in all proba- 
bility, will succeed his father, General Booth, 
as Chief of the Salvation Army, pays an equally 
generous tribute to his father and mother. 

"My earliest impressions, 1 ' he says, "the 
impressions which made a lasting effect on 
my character, were received from my mother, 
who was not only a woman of the deep- 
est piety and the strongest 
religious convictions, but a 
woman of very remarkable 
intellectual power and very 
much above the average in 
every way* Naturally she 
exercised a dominating influ- 
ence upon all our characters; 
As to my standards of life, 1^ 
think I may say that my father 
influenced me most, I have 
been unquestionably greatly 
determined in my life's work 
by his high ambitions for 
the kingdom of Christ," 

When we wrote to Dr. 
Robertson NicoII asking if 
he would be kind enough to 
furnish us with a tribute to 
the influence of his parents 

Frem Photograph* tw J. Burton & Am* 

upon his life, we had for the moment for- 
gotten the fact that two years ago he pub- 
lished a book telling an interesting story of 
his father's life, and the sacrifices the latter 
made in order to gain knowledge and add to 
his library* After mentioning this fact, the 
editor of The British Weekly , in a kindly 
letter, continued: u My mother died early, 
and I have only a few recollections of her* 
My father was a bookman in the full sense 
of the word, having accumulated some seven- 
teen thousand volumes out of a small income. 
He was orie of the two great influences upon 
my life, and I can trace him in almost every 
thought and action." 

Mr, Hall Caine, too, makes a touching 
reference to his father's sacrifices in ** My 
Story," ''If I were writing 
an autobiography in the 
accepted sense/* says the 
popular novelist, " I think I 
should be tempted to tell 
some touching stories of how 
my father, as a friendless and 
penniless boy, scrambled and 
starved himself through seven 
long years that were supposed 
to be necessary to teach him 
a trade ; and again, after he 
had married, and children 
had begun to come, starved 
and scrambled, or at least 
pinched and deprived him- 
strlflfrarrth the cheerful co- 

N.WttWl*SITy»f m 7, mother, 
through the years in which 
I and my first brother and 


j mom a Photovmpk bjr 0. S. Cwxn. 



sister had to be sent to school. The world 
went well with him in later days, and his 
children of a younger brood knew nothing 
of his privations ; but it is not for me, as his 
eldest son, to forget the stoical unselfishness 
to which I owe so much. 11 

Mr. j. M, Barrie has made a pretty refer- 
ence to his mother, the original, it is said, of 
Maggie Wylie in u What Every Woman 
Knows," She would be discovered, in 
answer to his excited letters, flinging the 
bundle of undarned stockings from her lap 
and going in for literature. She would rack 
her brains at her son's 
request for memories that 
he might convert into 
articles, then send them 
to him in letters which 
she dictated through her 
daughters, Barrie says 
that it used to be a say- 
ing with his mother that 
she "had her stockings 
always on the wires for 
odd moments," 

There is a touch of 
pathos in the tribute which 
Mr. Tom Gallon pays to 
his father. 

" He worked hard all 
his life," says the author, 
"and I never remember 
that he was anything but 
poor. Yet he found time 
to read, and that, too, 
of the best, and to show 
me, however blunder- 
ingly, how to read of the 
best in turn. He was above all a great 
playgoer, and there was scarcely anything in 
theatreland in tjiose days that I did not see* 
Not an expensive matter by any means, 
because we always went in the gallery, and 
that swallowed up so much money that we 
had to walk both ways from the south side 
of the river. One compensation we had, 
and that was that we generally managed to 
have enough money to spare to purchase 
hot potatoes from a stall going home. On 
very wet nights we rode — and then we had 
no potatoes. 

From a Photograph. 

" He always wanted me to write, although, 
poor man, he realized that I had to make a 
living, and didn't quite see how the two 
things would go together* And I know that 
on the production of my first play in a 
London theatre (like the young lady's baby, 
only a very little one) I seemed to miss 
him horribly. Because, you see, he was 

Mr. John Bloundelle-Burton mentioned a 
strange habit which he and his mother were 
wont to indulge in, and which, he says, £i may 
have had an indirect influence on my future. 
When we read romances 
or novels, or anything 
which possessed plot 
or denouement^ it w r as our 
custom, on arriving at a 
certain portion of the 
book, to write down our 
opinion of what the end 
of it would be, and what 
would become of the 
characters, good and bad, 
etc. More often than not 
we found that our opinions 
i]uite coincided, and, 
when they did not do so, 
if either of us was right— 
which was not always the 
case — it was my mother 
who was so. She was a 
woman of extraordinarily 
cultivated nature, and one 
to whom no subject came 

Dear to the heart 
and mind of Katharine 
Tynan (Mrs. Hinkson) are the memories of 
the home of her childhood in Dublin. 
11 My father/ 1 sh«„ says, " died three years 
ago, and was, md is, so very dear to 
me that I fuel unable, except in the most 
impersonal way, to talk of our dealings with 
each other." And that is why she prefers to 
talk of what he was to other people. But 
the old Dublin home was the resort of men 
of letters and distinction —an environment 
which Mrs* Hinkson considers had a great 
deal to do with the moulding of her 
own life- * 



Lavmia s Long Day. 


Illustrated ty W. H. Margeteon, R.L 

OUNG Mrs* Jevons carefully 
adjusted her veil before the 
mirror, snapped the clasp of 
her vanity bag, and took up 
her umbrella, 

" I wish I had not to leave 
you," she said, surveying the 

set of her well-cut coat and skirt ; " you knmu 

it's only because the Russells will be wild 

with me if I don't meet them, And I can't 

afford to risk offending one of Jack's best 

clients* A wife 

can do so much 

for her hus- 
band's interests. 

It seems rather 

shabby to go 

off for a whole 

day, after asking 

you here to keep 

me company in 

the wilds ; but 

you $write under- 
stand, Lavinia, 

Lavinia deter- 

rninedly sup- 


that lurked in 

the delicious 

oval of her 


"Quite," she 

said, briefly, 

"How sweet 

that coat is, 

* Isn't it?" 

The wearer re- 
volved slowly 

as she agreed. 

** One of my 

trousseau coats. 

Jack always 

loves to see me 

in it That's the 

worst of being 

down here; one 

can't wear one's 

nice things. You 

even look too 

Vol xl-37. 

smart in that pink cotton, Lavinia, and Pm 

sure it's only a washed-out thing." 

Lavinia's cheeks took on the colour of her 

gown. Marguerite was never famed for tact 

Perhaps if Lavinia had been well off she 

would not have felt the tiny sting inflicted by 

the words. 

She held out her skirt between thumb and 

forefinger and surveyed it with serene, brown 


" It certainly is a washed-out rag, w she re- 
marked ; " yet 
I feel quite 
fond of it I've 
had such fun in 
this gown/* 

"Well, it's 
good enough 
for this place," 
said Mrs. 
Jevons, dispa- 
ragingly, mov- 
ing towards the 
door. " Why 
we ever decided 
to come to such 
an out-of-the- 
way corner I 
can't imagine. 
Next year I'll 
persuade Jack 
** It's a darling 
place," remon- 
strated Lavinia, 
following the 
other down the 
narrow stairs 
and out at the 
open front door. 
"See how pic- 
turesque it is, 
with its peaked 
gables and old- 
fashioned gar- 
den — like a 
cottage in a 
fairy tale. 1 ' 

But young 
Mrs. Jevons 
paid no heed. 




She was surveying the horizon with medi- 
tative gaze. "Do you think I need take an 
umbrella, Lavinia?" 

"If you are taking it for probable rain, 
no" said Lavinia ; " if for appearances, yes." 

"But I think it looks well, don't you?" 

" I never carry an umbrella for the sake of 
appearances." Lavinia stood out in the little 
tiled path, shading her eyes with her hand. 
"But don't let me influence you. There's a 
tiny cloud in the west." 

" Then I'll take it," concluded Mrs. Jevons, 
with decision, moving towards the gate. 
" Why hasn't Jack an automobile ? I just 
hate having to walk to the station. Mrs. 
Pincher is rather late this morning, Lavinia; 
I hope you won't mind being left alone for a 
short while. She is stupid enough in all 
conscience, but she is company." 

Lavinia pointed to the deserted lanes 

" Why in the world should I mind ? She 
is probably on her way, and if anyone sus- 
picious comes I shall not open the door. 
Do be happy, Marguerite. Ypu ought to 
know by this time that I am pot a nervous 

Mrs. Jevons shrugged her shoulders. 

"I wish I wasn't. You should count 
yourself fortunate not to be highly strung, 
Lavinia ; it is a curse." 

" But I never encourage nerves," said 
Lavinia, lightly ; " they don't go with poverty, 
A thunderstorm is my only pet abomination, 
and that is too ingrained to be stamped out.. 
But hurry, or you will miss your train, Yes, 
yes, your skirt hangs beautifully ; the Russells 
won't be able to find any flaws in ypu, even 
if they want to. Do hurry." 

With admiring eyea she watched the tall, 
well-developed figure until a turn in the lane 
hid Marguerite from view. 

She was such a little thing herself, brown- 
eyed and slim, with a feminine grace that 
appealed to men's best instincts. Several 
had wanted to take care of her for the njst 
of her natural days, but though she had to 
work for her living, while all the time sh£ 
was drawn to the domestic hearth, Lavinia 
had steadily refused to marry for any 
mere worldly advantage. There was a whole 
fund of romance under her demure exterior, 
and she hoped one day to meet the man she 
might marry for love. Marguerite Jevons 
was making use of her, as usual, but Lavinia 
did not mind. After the rush and bustle of 
town, these country solitudes were inex- 
pressibly restful. 

She stood now by the rustic gate drinking 

in the fragrance of the air and the beauty of 
her surroundings. The cottage stood alone, 
on the edge of a small wood, only divided 
from the lane by the short tiled pathway 
terminated by a row of lichen - stained 

The sun shone down warmly on Lavinia's 
uncovered bronze -brown head, and tinged 
with a softer pink the contour of her cheek. 
Lost in thought, she stood there until the 
Striking of a clock inside the cottage brought 
her to herself. 

She turned slowly and went into the house. 
Ten o'clock and no Mrs. Pincher to keep 
her company. Half-past ten and still no sign. 
It was undoubtedly pleasant to be rid of 
Mrs. Pinchers small talk ; she was garrulous 
and not to be suppressed, while both in 
mind and appearance she was entirely out 
of keeping with the old-world air of the 

Lavinia tied an apron over her pink gown, 
and proceeded to wash up the breakfast 
things. This accomplished, and Mrs. Pincher 
still tarrying, she went upstairs to make the 
beds. Marguerite was untidy and incorrigibly 
careless. Her raiment was scattered over the 
room ; articles of jewellery, some of them 
really valuable, bestrewed thg dressing-table 
Lavinia put them into their several receptacles, 
and then stood at the window, uncertain what 
to do next. 

The sun was momentarily hidden behind a 
cloud ; a sudden breeze sprang up and shook 
the tree-tops. Then it was that Lavinia first 
• Y realized the intense solitude of her position. 
There was not a sign of living creature ; even 
the birds had ceased to sing, and all Nature, 
with herself, seemed to be waiting and 
listening. In spite of her liking for solitude 
Lavinia had seldom experienced much of 
her own society. There had generally been 
someone within reach, 

' Standing there, watching with intent eyes 
ths strip of lane along which Mrs. Pincher 
must pass, she debated within herself the 
best course to pursue, 

A feeling of dismay seized her at the 
thought of the long day that stretched before 
her. Marguerite would not return before 
eight o'clock that evening. Mrs. Pincher 
lived with an invalid husband a mile and a 
half away. Should she lock up the house 
and ascertain the reason of her non-appear- 
ance? The^walk through the lanes would 
be pleasant She decided to go, until she 
remembered that upstairs were Marguerite's 
valuables, while even downstairs the rash, 
newly-wedded pair had in use several pieces 



of solid silver. The cottage locks were of 
the flimsiest; suppose anyone should come 
during her absence and rifle the place? It 
was very improbable, of course, but she did 
not fed justified in risking it. No ; she was 
in a position of trust, and there she must 
remain until someone came to relieve hen 

"It is ridiculous if I can't put up with a 
day spent in my 
own society," said 
I^avinia to her- 
self; "and after 
my repudiation 
of nerves, too ! 
There is plenty 
to read, at all 
events. But I 
should be glad 
of a dog or a cat 
— or, in fact, any- 
thing alive* 

The glory of 
the day had de- 
parted. The sky 
grew darker, a 
bank of cloud 
rose high on the 
horizon, and the 
wind, with a low, 
moaning sound, 
rustled the tree- 

Her spirits 
sank to zero, 

"If there is 
going to be a 
storm," she satd 
to herself, "it 
will be fifty times 

H er pu lses 
quickened at the 
mere suggestion* 
She must get 
some needlework 
or a book to 
occupy her atten- 
tion, or perhaps a little gardening, mi^ht be 
more companionable than either. The sun 
gleamed out again behind the clouds, and 
her spirits rose in accord. 

She sang a little song to herself, and the 
moments passed laggingly until it was time 
to prepare the midday meal. She was in 
the act of enjoying it when some impulse 
prompted her to glance from the window at 
the strip of dusty lane along which Mrs- 
' Pincher must come. Someone moved slowly 
along it, Mrs. Pincher was ponderous and 


short of breath. She had come ! All 
Lavinia's apprehensions took flight. 

" At last ! " she exclaimed ; then looked 
again. It was not Mrs. lyncher's capacious 
figure passing between the hedgerows, but 
that of a man— a man of huge proportions, 
moving slowly with halting gait, and stooping 
forward a little as he came. There was some- 
thing strange 
about his actions, 
something steal- 
thy in the way he 
moved, as if he 
wished to escape 
observation. He 
limped, too; and 
even from that 
distance she 
could see he was 
covered thickly 
with dust. With 
fast- beating 
pulses Lavinia 
watched him 
from behind the 
muslin curtain. 
He would pro- 
bably pass by. 
But, no; his hand 
was on the gate, 
the latch clicked 
under his touch, 
"What shall I 
do?" Lavinia felt 
thoroughly fright- 
ened. u lie is so 
huge and — and 
— yes — there's 
blood on his 
hand/ 1 

Trembling in 
every limb she 
slipped away to 
the front door 
and shot the bolt. 
The windows 
only opened at 
two little diarnond-paned squares at the top. 
She drew herself into the slip of hall near the 
stairs and listened. It seemed a long time 
before she heard a knock upon the door It 
was an uncertain sound, almost furtive, she 
told herself, listening with pulses that beat 
suffocatingly and caused a rushing in her ears. 
Again and again came the knock, growing 
louder every time, and still she made no sign* 
Then she t heard an exclamation, a kind of 
growlJItfUf-^UWrifif^l^ere baffled, and the 
footsteps went slowly round the house- Tlr 




back door was bolted, she knew. She crept 
up the staircase, and paused beside a small 
window which gave on to the garden at the 

Just below, in the little tiled yard, was a 
lean-to place used for storing bicycles, tools, 
and so forth. She was just in time to see 
him pull the door open and go in. If she 
dared, now was her opportunity. She had 
only to slip out and turn the key in the lock ; 
there would be no risk of his emerging, as 
the lock was stronger than any on the house 
doors, and he would be neatly trapped. 
Otherwise he might easily murder her, rob 
the place, and be off without a soul being 
any the wiser. 

She longed inexpressibly for Mrs. Pinchers 
substantial frame; even Marguerite was tall 
and well-developed She herself was such a 
little thing. 

She hesitated, then in a flash it seemed 
the deed was done. * She had slipped from 
the front door and had turned the key in the 
lock. It creaked, of course, but that did not 
signify now. He was trapped completely 
without hope of escape, for all that lighted or 
ventilated the place was a small unglazed 
window high up in the wooden side of the 
shed. She heard a sound as she ran away 
again, the big key clas|>ed in her hand. He 
must be furious, of course. 

The house gained, she sat down on 
the lowest stair, trembling a little — yet 
triumphant, too. The relief was so over- 
whelming that tears struggled from beneath 
her closed eyelids and trickled down her 
cheeks. She strained to listen for a sound. 
He would probably kick the door, or show 
his rage in some audible way. But he did 
nothing of the kind. There was no sound ; 
even the wind had ceased to moan, and a 
breathless silence brooded over the place. 
Somewhere in the distance a storm was 
gathering. The air seemed full of electricity, 
and the nerves she did not know she pos- 
sessed were all on wires. 

" I shall remember this dreadful day all my 
life," she said to herself. " How shall I bear 
it until eight o'clock to-night ? " 

She rose presently, and then realized that 
she had left her meal half-finished. But 
desire for food was far from her. She shook 
her brown head pensively and took up the 
kettle to fill it from the pump outside. All 
the water in the house had to be carried, and 
the great can was empty. 

"Perhaps a cup of tea will put courage 
into me," she said, shuddering as she crept 
past the door of the shed. There was not a 

sound. It was when she was sipping her cup 
of tea that her heart smote her a little. In 
spite of .his great size and height the tramp 
had looked very white. and miserable in the 
glimpse she had caught of him. 

The halting gait, the bent, dejected 
shoulders covered with dust came back to 
her and roused some pity. He might be 
one of life's derelicts, he might be a murderer 
even, but he must be very hungry and thirsty 
and miserable in there. Lavinia could not 
bear to see a living thing in distress. She 
had been known to shed tears over a half- 
starved cat, or a sparrow dead upon the path- 
way. The fact that she had got the better of 
the tramp roused her sympathy. She could 
afford to be magnanimous. 

Rising, she collected some slices of ham 
and bread and butter. Then she paused 
How to give them to him ? She was not, of 
course, so mad as to think of opening the 
door. She must put them through the 
window near the roof. That necessitated a 
ladder. She found one propped against an 
apple tree in the garden, and, returning, 
placed it in position against the tarred 
wooden side of the shed. Then she went 
to the house again for the food, which she 
put into a tin milk-can, attaching a piece of 
string to the handle. That accomplished, 
she climbed the ladder very softly and looked 
in. Her breath came and went rapidly ; she 
was terribly afraid of what she should see. 

As a matter of fact, the shed was so dark 
that she could see nothing but the vaguest 
shadows. There was no sound, no move- 
ment from the tramp. He might not have 
been in the shed at all. But the prisoner 
from his resting-place in the corner saw a 
sudden radiance fill the aperture near the 
roof. Lavinia's bronze -brown head and 
lovely face were set in a nimbus of light 
like that of a saint in a sun-encircled stained 

The vision was speaking to him — a voice 
broke the shadows that hemmed him in. 

"You are here for no good, of course," 
said Lavinia, severely, forgetting that after 
all he had done nothing so far to induce the 
theory; "and, as I am alone, you must stay 
where you are until someone comes who can 
help me to get rid of you." She felt quite 
safe in letting him know her solitary state. 
" But I daresay you are hungry, and so I 
have brought you some bread and ham. 
The enforced rest will do you no harm." 

For the first f^me a sound came from the 
interior of the shed, a husky, indistinct sound 
that she understood to mean gratitude. 



The tin milk-can swung downwards until it 
touched the ground, and Lavinia disappeared 
from the aperture. 

The tramp drew a long breath and put out 
his hand. 

He was ravenously hungry, but, more than 
that, his thirst was prodigious. 

As if divining his wishes, the vision 

" If you would like anything to drink, I 
will bring you some tea. You need not 
expect intoxicants. There is only a little 
brandy in the house. You may not like tea, 
but it is much better for you." 

Again she heard an indistinct sound from 
the recesses of the barn. This time it was 
followed by a husky word of thanks. She 
clambered duwn the ladder, and presently 
returned with a good-sized can of tea and 
milk, all ready sugared. It was seized before 
it had time to reach the ground, and the 
same husky voice said, in a humble way, 
" Thank you kindly." 

Like every woman worthy of the name, 
Lavinia felt a desire to reform erring man- 
kind. She descended the ladder, almost 
softened towards her captive. He was so 
very harmless under lock and key. 

Her humane treatment of him might lead 
him from his undesirable life, might prove 
the turning-point in his downward career. 
Lavinia felt almost cheerful as she went back 
to the house. Rain was beginning to fall in 
great drops, and she held her pink skirts from 
the wet, glistening tiles as she went in at the 
open door. Half her fears had subsided. 
When Marguerite returned, one of them 
could seek aid in evicting the tramp. No 
doubt he would be glad to get away 
with a caution, and perhaps — Lavinia was 
too ridiculously soft-hearted for anything — 
perhaps a trifling sum to aid him in his 

The rain pattered on the tiles and drew 
out a myriad sweetnesses from the her- 
baceous borders in the garden. Lavinia 
lost her sense of loneliness. Was it possible 
that even a tramp under lock and key close 
by could be better than nothing in the way 
of company ? 

She even hummed a little tune to herself, 
and took out her embroidery. 

Then suddenly, as she stood by the 
table in the parlour searching for a thimble 
and thread, she heard a faint sound in the 
room overhead. She started so violently that 
the thimble, just found, rolled across the 
table and away to a distant corner near the 
window* But Lavinia made no movement 

to stop it. Transfixed with dread, she stood 
motionless, listening, telling herself that she 
must be mistaken The sound came again, 
indeterminate, stealthy, but a sound never- 
theless, and in the room where Marguerite's 
trinkets were placed. 

She remembered too late that while acting 
the part of the Good Samaritan she had left 
the front door wide open. Somebody — 
another tramp, perhaps — must have slipped 
into the house during her brief absence, and 
was even now rifling the place of its 

She dared not go upstairs. Better to stay 
down here and wait. She stood as if rooted 
to the spot, holding to the table for support, 
her eyes fixed on the door leading into the 
tiny hall. Perhaps after all she had been 
mistaken — it was possible that the wind had 
caused the sound. But there was not a 
breath of air to blow anything aside. The 
atmosphere was still and heavy, almost un- 
cannily still. Across the silence the sound 
came again, this time the creaking of a stair. 
Footsteps descended stealthily. There were 
seven stairs in the flight, she counted them 
mechanically one by one. It seemed cen- 
turies before the intruder appeared. At the 
sight of him Lavinia's heart seemed to cease 
beating. Dirty, ragged, threatening, he 
looked every inch a criminal. There was 
something ferocious in the glance he turned 
on her. 

She stood motionless as he advanced ; she 
wanted to fly, but her trembling limbs refused 
to stir. Then as he drew nearer, his filthy, 
claw-like hands stretched out towards her, 
she shrieked wildly, desperately, forgetting 
that she was far from help — forgetting every- 
thing but the horror of his approaching 

She fell back against the wall as he reached 
her, and everything grew dark. His terrible 
face was blotted out, but she did not entirely 
lose consciousness. In the shadows circling 
round her she realized that from some- 
where aid had come ; there was a struggle 
going on near her, she could hear the breath 
of desperate men coming in quick pants. 
Then a door banged somewhere and she 
found herself alone. 

She groped her way to the couch and sat 
down, staring at the door. She did not 
understand what had happened ; she had 
been delivered from her terrible visitor, but 
beyond that she could not go. 

Approaching footsteps aroused in her a 
sick apprehension, hat in some miraculous 
way a glance at the man coming in sent 

2 94 


all her fears away. He leaned against the 
mantelshelf, breathing short and quickly. 
With his huge height and broad shoulders he 
seemed to dominate [he little room* Lavinia, 
turning towards him a piteous face from 

you forgive me? I just had tu come out 
and settle things, you know." 

As the truth burst upon Lavinia the colour 
rushed back to her face in a flood, making it 
as softly pink as her gown. 

' «*w 


which every trace of colour had been wiped 
out, realized instinctively that he was to be 
trusted. Where he had come from or how 
she did not seek to know. He was there to 
help her, to guard her from that terrible 

It was some moments before he spoke, 
just as she noticed with fascinated eyes that 
blood was trickling slowly down his sleeve, 
and in big, ugly drops to his palm. He 
Stanched it with his pocket-handkerchief, 
then spoke with a half apologetic, humorous 

11 1 broke loose from my captivity. Do 

"You — I — oh, you catfi be " she 

stammered, "It is not possible that I * 

" That you locked me up ? But indeed it 
is. And very deftly too. I can't go back, 
even if you wish it, as tramp number two 
is occupying my place in the shed. Un* 
fortunately, I was obliged to break the lock, 
so he has the added ignominy of bonds. 
No, no " — as she gave a quick glance round— 
** he can't escape ; in fact, he is far more 
secure than I- wa^" 

a li^P^r-MSWe teed myse^f^y 
moment, the place was so ramshackle ; but I 



guessed you were badly scared, and I deter- 
mined to stay where I was for a while. And 
after all, in spite of your fears, how heavenly 
kind you were to the wretched tramp you 
took me for ! " 

Lavinia's face grew very pale. Unable to 

utter a word, she made a little arresting 

gesture, and then, thoroughly unstrung by 

her experiences, she put her face against the 

4jead of the couch and began to cry. 

Arkwright clenched his hands and took a 
turn round the room. He badly wanted to 
stroke the downcast brown head, to comfort 
her in some absurd way like a child. Instead, 
he drew a chair near and sat down, looking 
helplessly worried and incapable, as men do 
wljen a woman weeps. 

" Do you know," he said, after a moment 
or two, " this is fifty times worse than being 
locked up. Please stop crying. You have 
had a terrible shock— two, in fact — but you 
needn't be frightened any more. I'm equal 
to a regiment of tramps if I may stay a little." 

Lavinia looked up. 

" Oh, but you won't go ? " she exclaimed. 
"I daren't stay by myself any more." 

She was trembling all over, her brown eyes 
wide with fear. " He might escape, you see, 
and — and — I can't bear any more — — " 

" No, no, don't cry — it makes me wretched, 
and you needn't be afraid. Of course I'll 

Lavinia sat upright and dried her eyes. 
Then she drew a long sigh of relief. 

" It's not only that I'm frightened," she 
said, in a low tone, her eyes downcast, her 
lashes — such long ones, Arkwright thought — 
sweeping her cheek, "it's partly because I'm 
so ashamed of myself for having treated you 
in that way. Of course, I did not really look 
at you " 

"If you had it would have been the same," 
he protested ; "lam disreputable enough in 
all conscience. As a matter of fact, I had 
had a bad spill on my motor-bicycle, and I 
was covered with dust, while in addition a 
stake in the hedge ran into my hand. My 
ankle too, hurt confoundedly." 

But she shook her head. "It was un- 
pardonable on my part, quite. Please let me 
say I'm sorry ; it is the least I can do. And 
now I'm going to bathe your wrist and tie it 
up. Come into the kitchen." 

He watched her as she deftly went about 
her task and noticed that she was very pale. 

" You look as if you wanted a little of that 
intoxicant you denied me," he said. 

She grew suddenly pink again and he 

" There, I won't tease you any more. The 
cup of tea you gave me was the most ex- 
quisite draught I ever had. I was so fright- 
fully thirsty. Tell me, are you always so 
tender-hearted towards tramps ? " 

He enjoyed seeing that delicious colour 
ebb and flow in her cheeks. 

"Please, don't," she said, looking up at 
him with pleading brown eyes. And at that 
moment into Arkwright's life something 
dawned that was never to go out of it. His 
hand shook a little as her light touch went 
about her work. 

" It hurts ? " she asked, looking up with an 
anxious frown, 

"A little," he said, watching her deft treat- 
ment of the bandage, one of her own gossamer 
handkerchiefs. " How well you manage it." 

" I have learned first aid ; you see, 
one never knows how useful it may be. 
Suppose "^her clasp unconsciously closed 
on his hand — " suppose you had not been 
there, and Marguerite away for the day, and 
Mrs. Pincher not coming. What should I 
have done ? Listen ! Did you " hear a 
sound ? " 

"You have been badly frightened," he 
remarked; "there's nothing to worry about. 
He can't possibly get out. ■ Tell me abort 
Marguerite and Mrs, Pincher. It was out- 
rageous of them to desert you, anyway." 

Sitting there on the edge of the kitchen 
dresser he heard about everything. 

" So this is Jevons's little place ? " 

" Do you know him ? " Lavinia's eyes 
were wide with amazement. 

" I am a client of his." He could not 
understand her expression. 

"A client? Would you mind telling me 
your name ? " 

He gave her an amused glance. 

"Arkwright, John J., at your service. 
What is the matter?" 

Lavinia's face was a study. 

"And I locked you up," she said, in a 
breathless kind of way. " I have heard of 
you. You won't let it make any difference, 
will you ? They would be so angry if they 

The pleading brown eyes of velvety soft- 
ness were too much for Arkwright. He got 
up and came closer, speaking deliberately as 
he looked down at her. 

" It's going to make just this difference," 
he said. " They told me Jevons was here, and 
I came down to tell him that I meant to take 
all my business from him. He's a bit too 
casual to my mind, clever as he is — too much 
given to playing round ; but now " 





44 Now?" Lavi ma's breath came and went 

Ark wright gave a short laugh and went 
over to the window, 

"Now? Why, I'll let him keep it— with a 
caution. And, what's tnore t Fit put all I can 
in his way, because— — " 

He broke off and came back* looming over 
her where she sat on the brown Windsor 

"Because?" asked Lavinia. Then sud- 

denly she laughed a little, 
a dimple showing for the 
first time in her cheek. 

" Have you any notion 
how good tea can be 
from a milk-can?" he 
asked, smiling too. 
"Jevons has to thank 
his lucky stars for that 
fact, and — for others." 

" Vm glad I haven't 
deprived him of his most 
important client," Lavinia 
began, demurely ; then 
she started to her feet* 
" listen — there's some- 
body at the gate," She 
peeped through £he 
dimity blind and gave a 
sigh of relief, w It's 
Mrs. Pincher at last ! " 

She hurried to unbar 
the back door, and her 
heard M rs. Pi nch er f s 
voice voluble with 
excuses. Pincher had 
been taken suddenly 
worse ; she had had to 
wring out hot flannel in 
turpentine ; she had sem 
for her daughter, who 
had been unable to come 
until half an hour ago. 
From st i fled excla m a- 
tions Arkwright under- 
stood that Mrs. Pincher 
was being informed of 
some at least of the day's 
experiences. He made 
his way into the parlour, 
and so got beyond ear- 

Here Lavinia presently 
found him. 

" I said nothing about 

— about locking you up, J? 

she said. "There's no 

need to tell people," 

will keep it a dead secret between 

ourselves. Why should another soul know 

about it?" 

"Needn't I tell the Jevonses?" asked 

Lavinia, her face showing the utmost relief, 
" Not a word, By the way, here are some 

of Mrs. Jcvons's belongings. I took them 

from the pockets of tramp number two. She 

ought|^fitM^Q^^^own here. Must I 

go now ? 

"Go? With that dreadful man in there? 




Oh, please, no. That is, unless you have an 

" I have none," said Arkwright, an ex- 
pression in his eyes that made Lavinia's 
heart beat in an unaccustomed and delightful 
way ; " and if I had it would count for nothing 
if you wished me to stay." 

The silence grew oppressive. 

I ovinia broke it. 

" Mr. and Mrs. Jevons will be back at eight 
o'clock. You'll be able to talk business after- 
wards. Mrs. Pincher will get tea presently. 
I wish " — she stood meditatively by the 
table, fingering her strip of embroidery — "I 
wish- " 

"Yes?" Arkwright thought that brown- 
eyed girls should always wear pink cotton 

" Do you think we could let him go with a 
caution ? " 

"To rob another house? To terrify other 
people? Certainly not. It would be most 

Lavinia assented meekly. 

" I hate to think of having him so near," 
she said, presently. " I wish you would let 
him out. We should be free of him, and 
after the fright he has had I daresay he would 
leave other houses alone, especially if -" 

" If what ? ,J demanded Arkwright, sternly. 

Lavinia blushed. 

" Nothing," she said, in a low tone. 

" It is just because you are sorry for him. 
You have forgotten how he terrified you. 
For my part I never saw a more evil coun- 
tenance. Mine is not to be named in the 
same day " 

" Dorit" interposed Lavinia, growing pink 

" I'll go and have a look at him if you 
like," said Arkwright, presently. " Poor 
wretch ! who knows how he may have been 
driven to evil ways." 

" No, no," exclaimed Lavinia, incon- 
sistently ; " he might do you some harm." 

Arkwright laughed. " With his ankles 
and wrists tied up securely? How could 
he ? " 

Opening the door he went round to the 
shed. The lock hung loosely where he had 
burst it. He pulled the door open and 
looked in. 

Lavinia stood listening. There was not a 
sound. Could the tramp have proved more 
dangerous than they had supposed ? She 
gathered her courage together and crept 
along to the door of the shed. It was empty. 
Only a frayed length of rope showed where 
the tramp had been. 

Vol. xl.— 38. 

Half angry, half amused, Arkwright's eyes 
met hers. Lavinia's face showed a vast 

" He, too, seems to have been a strong 
man," she remarked, demurely. " You are 
not really sorry ? " 

From Arkwright's hand a coin fell sharply 
to the ground. He grew suddenly discon- 
certed, like a schoolboy found out in a 
misdemeanour. Lavinia, comprehending, 
laughed softly, and without a word led the 
way back to the house. 

" It is a mistake to encourage tramps with 
money," she said, when they reached the 

" But not with tea,, and bread and ham ? " 
he queried, recovering his equanimity. "I 
am quite sure you meant to set me 
free after a time with a caution, and some- 
thing more substantial to help me on my 

It was so exactly what she had meant that 
Lavinia smiled. 

" Perhaps," she agreed ; then hurriedly, to 
change the subject, " Mrs. Pincher has 
offered to make us some scones for tea, 
partly, I believe, to induce you to stay " 

Arkwright drew nearer. Lavinia picked 
up her embroidery and put in the needle 
haphazard. Her heart was beating a happy 

" You meant to set me free ? " he asked. 

Lavinia nodded, and snapped off a length 
of thread. 

"You could not do it," said Arkwright, 
looking at the down-bent brown head, his 
jesting tone giving place to gravity. " I shall 
never be free again. Do you understand 
what I mean?" 

" N-n-o," said Lavinia, almost inaudibly, 
colouring to the tips of her small ears. 

But she did. 

" One day we'll endow a Permanent Home 
of Rest for Tramps," said Arkwright, as Mrs. 
Pincher appeared with the tea-tray, "where 
they shall have comfortable quarters, a little 
pocket-money, and nothing more intoxicating 
than tea." 

" The scones are as light as light can be, 
miss," said Mrs. Pincher, uncovering the 
muffineer ; " you and the gentleman must 
want your tea, I'm sure, after the fright 
youVe had. I shall always feel sorry that 
Pincher chose to-day of all days to be took 

As the door closed behind her, Lavinia's 
eyes and Arkwright^^et. 

It ywafi-jigafpable Jrhaji-rneither agreed with 
Mrs. Pincher. 



Photographs by George Newnes, Ltd. 

HERE seems to be no doubt 
about the fact that shop-lifting 
is reaching a very high level, 
and the refined methods of 
some of the modern exponents 
of the art would delight the 
heart of Mr. Fagin himself. 
With a view to getting information about 
this interesting industry, I have been making 
a little tour of the principal shops of London 
and Paris, where the managers have been 
extremely kind in giving me their experiences. 
Finding it impossible to cope with the 
army of shop - lifters, several large firms 
now have a well-organized staff of detec- 
tives, and, in addition to this, some of 
the more intelligent assistants are trained to 
be very efficient understudies. In one well- 
known shop there is a lady assistant who is, 
I am told, the equal of any man in watching 
a suspicious customer. Her eye is like a 
hawk's, and woe ' betide the criminal or 
kleptomaniac who comes her way. 

People imagine that, since we read so 
much more about it in the papers lately, 
shop-lifting must be very much on the 
increase. But, although it is so much more 
skilfully managed than of yore, I am assured 
that there is really not so much of it going 
on as a year or two ago. At one time it was 
becoming a very serious matter for some of 
the large shops, so they determined to hold 
a conference to discuss how to remedy the 
evil. Finally a committee was appointed to 
deal with the matter, and it was agreed by 
all the parties concerned that anyone found 
flagrantly and deliberately stealing on their 
premises should forthwith be handed over 
to the police and prosecuted. The evil-doer 
is evidently beginning to feel a wholesome 
dread of consequences, and though he may 
still haunt unguarded neighbourhoods he 
gives a very wide berth to those places which 
he knows to be within the danger zone. 

If any members of the shop-lifting fraternity 
should read this article and realize how 
thoroughly their methods are understood and 
how closely they are watched, the highly 
desirable effect may be to curtail their 
operations considerably. 

I was discussing shop-lifting with the head 

of a detective agency which occupies itself 
almost entirely with this branch of crime. 
This gentleman kindly offered to tell me all 
he knew about the subject, and I suppose 
that what he doesn't know isn't worth 

" Sometimes I feel quite nervous of being 
mistaken for a shop-lifter myself," I confessed 
to him. "Often at sale-time, when I have 
been turning over a heap of silks or laces, I 
have caught the steely eye of a shop- walker 
fixed inquiringly on me, which has really for 
a second or two made me feel almost like a 
suspicious character myself. Don't you think 
they might some time make a mistake and 
render it very unpleasant for an entirely inno- 
cent person ? I know many people who are 
terrified of fingering a sale bargaih for fear of 

11 Please put that idea entirely out of youi 
head," he assured me. u It is just where the 
detective system is most in force that such 
mistakes are quite imjtossiblel Ndw at 
Messrs. X.'s, where I organize this department, 
no one is ever molested who has not given 
the fullest grounds for suspicion. Even then 
she is never arrested on the premises. As 
long as a person remains in the shop we 
always take for granted that she is intending 
sooner or later to go to a desk and pay. 
But when she actually leaves the place with 
the article secreted about her person, then a 
member of my staff follows her, raises his hat 
politely, and says quietly, so as not to attract 
attention : — 

" 1 1 think you have something in your 
possession that does not belong to you. 
Will you kindly follow me to the manager's 

" Now, if anyone said that to you or any 
other innocent person your behaviour would 
be quite different to the shop-lifter's. You 
would probably say, ' You must be making a 
mistake ! ' ' What on earth can you mean ? ' 
or something of the kind. 

11 But usually we find that the lady laden 
with spoils turns on us and says, * How dare 
you ! How dart you ! ' and sometimes re- 
fuses to go Yrith lis, Then, of course, if we 
can't manage without him we have to call a 
policeman to the rescue and conduct her to 



the manager by main force. Yon can J t think 
how careful we have to be, We simply 
daren't risk making a false accusation, for the 
consequences to us would be disastrous. I 
believe there was a case of a mistake some 
time ago, but the damages were so heavy that 
no one will venture to tempt Providence again 
unless the evidence is absolutely irrefutable. 

" But once we are convinced that it is a 
case of genuine shop-lifting, then w*e don't let 
the culprit off, whatever the inducement. If 
we did, it would be simply compounding a 
felony* She is taken by the policeman round 

York there are regular schools for shop-lifters. 
In these places they are taught the newest 
and most approved methods, and learn to be 
so dexterous and light-fingered that detection 
is very difficult. Counters are arranged and 
spread with things just as in the big stores, 
and the art of pilfering is thoroughly explained. 
In London, I am told, children do not do 
much shop-lifting, but their thieving consists 
chiefly in stealing food when really hungry. 
In New York, on the contrary, they are often 
as clever as their elders. It is said that well- 

A girl passing through a deserted department snatched up a boa 
and, without pausing an instant, flung it round her neck." 

" So quickly was it done that the girl 
passed on unperceived by the assistants/' 

lo the nearest police-station^ and formally 
charged with the offence. 

"There is a very ingenious arrangement to 
call me up whenever trouble of this kind 
occurs and I happen to be in a remote part 
of the shop* An assistant at the telephone 
switches on a certain combination of coloured 
lights which appear all over the building round 
the clocks. Directly I see the colours I know 
that I am wanted, and forthwith hurry off to 
the manager's office. 

"When Messrs. X/s was first opened most 
of the professional shop-lifters in London 
flocked there, but we soon altered all that 
The men on my staff know many of them by 
sight, and they know my men too. Kather 
an amusing little episode happened one day. 
Just as a notoriously clever lady was about to 
exercise her undeniable talents she caught 
sight of one of my people* 

"'Oh, Mr, ,' she exclaimed, naively, 

quite taken aback, ' if I had only known you 
were on the premises I shouldn't have come 

In the East-end of London and in New 

dressed women are sent out every day from 
these schools, to make a tour of the chief 
shops and bring back their plunder at night. 

A cousin of mine was making her way 
through a fashionable shop a few weeks ago. 
The department was rather deserted, but a 
little way ahead of her was a pretty, smartly- 
dresscd girl walking rather fast. She saw her 
pass a counter of chiffon boas where there 
was no assistant for the moment Without 
pausing an instant she picked one up, flung 
it round her neck, and was in the next shop 
before my cousin had entirely realized what 
had happened. Nobody else had noticed it, 
and the girl got aw T ay safely with her booty. 

Most of the shop-lifting seems to go on at 
sale-time, when women, although they have 
the chance of getting things far cheaper, 
become greedy and unprincipled* If I were 
one of the fraternity, I think my ambitions 
and higher instincts would prompt me 10 
exercise my talents earlier in the season, when 
I could get articles: of ihe dernier cri instead 
of wai^f^ A ^ L^p;ER9flejlty and often the 
freshness had worn off However, I suppose 



they know their own business best, and no 
doubt the crowds that collect at big sales 
render detection difficult. * 

The manager of a famous London firm, 
which holds the most attractive sales in town, 
judging from the dense mobs that flock to 
them, told me some amusing tales of the 
attempts to plunder them. " But never mind," 
he said, " we are catching them by degrees, 
and the number of professionals who come 
here has decreased very much. You read 
so much about shop lifting now in the papers, 
which really means that the offenders are being 
found out, and that they get severe enough 
punishment to frighten away others who 
were at one time encouraged by the easiness 
of the job. Summer and winter clearances 
are on a vaster scale every year, and the 
great crowds that collect here shield their 
operations. Half London and the suburbs 
are at our doors long before they open in the 
morning, and special trains are run from 
far-off provincial towns to enable them to 
swell the throng. 

"Blouses are always first favourites with 
shop-lifters. The boot and shoe department 
suffers 9. good deal from depredations, and it 
is rather difficult to keep an eye on everyone 
at a very busy time. These ladies come in a 
miserable old pair of boots and then pick up 
a smart pair to try on. Presently, when the 
assistants are all engaged, they seize their 
opportunity and slip round a convenient 
corner, leaving their discarded foot - gear 
behind them. This can so easily be done 
since many people when trying on a pair 
of boots like to walk about a little to see if 
they are quite comfortable when the foot 
sinks into them. 

" Hats, too, are sometimes tried on, and 
in the same way an old one is left behind 
in exchange for a ten-guinea plumed Gains- 

" Some of the devices for hiding things are 
really very clever. One day an assistant's 
attention was drawn to two fat Jewish women 
who were very busy in the underskirt depart- 
ment, helping each other to choose silk 
petticoats. There was a great mob in the 
shop,. but they were most kind in measuring 
the size and making sure that the petticoats 
were just right. The assistant drew the atten- 
tion of a foreman to their little manoeuvres, 
and he found on closer investigation that the 
two ladies had the most ingenious arrangement 
for taking home any amount of plunder. 
Under their skirts was attached a kind of 
crinoline, and hooks \yere fastened to this. 
Although they were really quite thin, they 

managed thus to hang up* petticoats galore 
and all sorts of things on their improvised 
wardrobe without attracting attention to their 
rapidly-increasing figures. We found on them 
not only our own goods, but things from other 
shops in the neighbourhood, "showing that 
they had been having a hard day's work. 

" One old German woman on being caught 
red-handed begged and implored to be let off, 
protesting that she was really as innocent as 
a new-born lamb, and that if she had made 
some little mistake it was at any rate the first 
one. On inquiry we found out that she was 
one of the most hardened old sinners in 
London. Her career of crime had begun 
twenty-nine years ago, and had been pursued 
merrily till the present day. When she found 
sobbing and protesting of no avail she made 
a wild dash for a side door and violently 
kicked and bit a pursuing policeman. 

"Although these tales may sound like 
comedy, sometimes the shop-lifting mania 
may end in something very like tragedy. 
Only the other day a well-dressed person 
was arrested at some well-known stores near 
Sloane Street. She had been detected taking 
an expensive blouse and hiding it beneath 
her jacket. That night in the police -cells 
the poor creature was so overcome by horror 
at the terrible position her mad conduct 
had led her into that she tried to strangle 
herself with her stay-lace. 

" Sometimes the offender is a person of 
good position, and I have had most distress- 
ing scenes in my office. Naturally, if it is a 
genuine case of aberration, one feels sorry for 
the offender. A little while ago a lady was 
brought in crying and absolutely broken 
down. Some impulse had prompted her to 
appropriate our goods. c I implore you to 
spare me,' she pleaded. ' I am perfectly 
able to pay for the things. If you expose 
me I shall never be able to hold up my head 
again. My daughter has just made a very 
good match, and I cannot bear to think of 
the disgrace this will bring upon her too.' " 

It is difficult to account for the temptation 
that assails people to steal things in shops. 
No doubt in many cases it is kleptomania 
pure and simple. A popular paper some 
time ago, in discussing the subject, suggested 
that it was an impulse such as prompts birds 
at nesting-time to annex every useful and 
portable thing they come across to help them 
to build their nests. 

A strange case happened only a short time 
ago in one of the principal London stores 
which is difficult to explain satisfactorily. A 
good-looking, well-dressed woman was noticed 



1 The woman picked up odds and ends of jewellery, dropping some into 

her umbrella.' 

wandering about the shop in a rather desultory 
way. She picked up odds and ends of 
jewellery and small things at the various 
counters, dropping some into her umbrella, 
secreting others in her muff, and even 
helping herself to a bag to hold the rest ol 
her spoils. 

When she was requested to go to the 
manager's office to explain the reason of her 
strange proceedings she completely gave way. 
She confessed that something had driven her 
to steal the things, although she had plenty 
of money with her, and she could have paid 

a great asset to the thief, but 
they do not contain as many 
things as that astute person 
hopes to carry home, so she has 
big pockets fixed in her petti- 
coats and all round the hem of 
her skirt She then manages to 
push or drop the things she 
covets on the floor and stands 
over them, When attention is 
diverted elsewhere she bends 
down and proceeds to pack 
them deftly into the convenient 
pockets. A three-quarter cape, 
too, she finds useful, for deep 
pockets can be arranged all 
round it, Wearing this she 
spreads herself over a counter 
in a graceful attitude, and when 
an opportune moment arrives 
she transfers the things she has 
managed to cover into the pockets 
and presently saunters away, 

Some women have actually 
been found with quite a collec- 
tion of things in their stockings, 
and others have secreted jewels 
in their haft, for the voluminous 
turban dressing of the last few 
months has been very helpful 
to them. Sometimes, when they 
have escited suspicion, they 
find it difficult to dispose of their ill-gotten 
gains. In this case they usually make for the 
ladies' reading and dressing rooms, hoping 
there to find an opportunity for hiding them 
more securely about their persons if they are 
left alone for a moment, 

One day, in the dressing-room of a smart 
Knightsbridge shop, I ami plained to the 
attendant that I could not find a scrap of 
soap with which to wash my hands. She 
apologized and produced a piece from the 
dark recesses of , a cupboard, assuring me 
that it was absolutely necessary to hide it, 
for, however sticky its condition, it was 

for them over and over again. Her husband 

had given her a large cheque only a few days bound to disappear before long if it were left 

before, telling her to go up to town and about. Combs, brushes, button -hooks, all 

spend it. The poor man was in a profession 
in which he would have suffered very severely 
from a disclosure of this knd. He implored 
the manager to overlook the w T retched busi- 
ness, and finally the matter was hushed up, 
in view of the disastrous consequences it 
would bring down on him. Probably people 
do not realize in obeying these strange 
impulses what suffering and disgrace they 
may bring on their innocent relations. 

The huge muffs in vogue lately have been 

had to be constantly renewed, and nothing 
seemed safe from the raids of the shop-lifter. 
My detective friend tells me that some of 
the light-fingered gentry are wonderfully 
clever at substitution. They will come to 
shops armed with exact copies of a piece 
of jewellery, and quietly change the false for 
the real when they get an opportunity. This 
was done on an occasion some little time ago, 
when aiW0ndorfiilly*ma^ej-jmitation necklace 
was substituted" for a Tamous rope of pearls. 



" The huge muffs that have been lately *o much in vogue are one of the thief *s greatest assets.' 

Jewellers now have a very ingenious plan 
for checking their rings, so as to make sure 
that none are missing when an unknown 
customer leaves the shop. They will bring 
out a tray of them for inspection, and if you 
notice you will see that each little groove is 
filled and not a space remains. Supposing a 
thief tried to take one the 
vacant place would be 
noticed in an instant 

Every firm, however, has 
not the same views about 
shop-lifting, and some large 
shops employ no detectives 
on their premises. The 
manager of a well-known 
drapery firm near Picca- 
dilly Circus told me he 
made practically no at- 
tempts to catch people 
beyond instructing the 
assistants to be on their 
guard, and that he did not 
consider that very much 
thieving went on there, 
11 What does happen, some- 
times," he said> "is that 
ladies have their property 
taken if they are careless 
enough to leave it about 
on the counter and a dis- 
honest person happens to 
be near. Valuable muffs 
and bags often change 
owners, and in the hat de- 
partment we have to warn 
the assistants to be care- 
ful. Sometimes a lady will 
try on a hat and then walk 
away to a looking-glass at a 

Another plan is to 
floor and quickly 

distance, where she thinks she can get a better 
light, leaving her purse behind her on a chair 
or counter. The wily thief will first move a 
hat so as to cover the purse* Then a second 
or two later she will slip her hand under the 
hat and neatly extract the purse." 

In Paris, at great establishments like the 
Louvre, the Printemps, and 
the Galencs Lafayette, 
there is no doubt that the 
shop- lifter does a roaring 
trade, 1 had heard tales 
of how, when offenders 
were caught, they were 
taken to the manager's 
office and given the choice 
of being whipped by a 
burly woman or handed 
over to the police* So 
w r hen I was there the other 
day I amused myself by 
making a few T inquiries. I 
arrived at the Galeries 
Lafayette in the afternoon, 
and found a huge crowd 
downstairs such as I have 
never yet had to face at 
a London sale even on 
the first day. People were 
wedged so tightly together 
that it was practically im- 
possible to get along, and 
almost difficult to breathe. 
After one desperate at- 
tempt I gave up all idea 
of making purchases. 
Buyers were trying to force 
their way along, holding 

drop thifwiAM liWlVt l R , 5!l i rYP arcels hi £ h abovc 
siand over tlhenu * their heads to prevent their 



being squashed flat, and an 
unlucky hound that had wan- 
dered in with his master was 
having a very poor lime. I said 
to one of the shop-walkers who 
struggled by, " I suppose I 
have been unlucky enough to 
hit on a very special sale 
day?" But he smiled sadly 
and replied, f< Mon Dieu, non, 
madame. Every day is the 
same ! " 

By devious ways and almost 
by hanging on to the coat-tails 
of my guide I at length reached 
the manager's office. He kindly 
gave me his view of the matter. 

u It is the custom in Paris to spread out 
all our goods on counters, so that the public 
may examine them* There is no doubt that 
a great amount of shop-lifting must go orij but 
when you see the immense crowds of people 
who flock here daily can you tell me how 
we are to prevent it, 
short of having a 
regular army of de- 
tectives? Of course, 
our assistants and 
shop - walkers are 
trained to a certain 
extent to watch the 
goods, but we have 
no organization 
such as I see some 
of your London 
firms have started. 
I think I am right 
in saying that no 
Paris firms have. 
When we do catch 
a thief, though, he 
is handed over at 
once to the police 
and the offence is 

11 When the assistant's attention is diverted else- 
where the shop-lifter bends down and stows the 
articles away into pockets arranged in the hem of 
her skirts. Here an accomplice is often necessary 
to stand in front and screen operations." 

punished far more 
heavily than it is in 
London* But we 
haven't begun to 
whip them yet ! " 

When 1 left the 
manager s office, 
passing out of the 
building by a side 
door, it was rather 
amusing to find 
that here at last I 
was viewed with 
distinct suspicion. 
I passed a porter's 
lodge and a great 
rapping was heard 
and the window 
was thrown up, 
u Where do you 
come from?" 
asked the |>orter. 
I answered that I 
had been to see 
the manager. 
"Humph ! Well, 
I must see what 
you have got in 
that parcel" I un- 
rolled it and dis- 
played something 
of the value of a 

couple of francs, explaining meekly that it really 
was honestly come by. As they give one no 
receipted bills it might have been a little 
difficult to prove my probity, but after a few 
more expostulatory grunts he shut down his 
window, telling me I was ^t liberty to depart. 

" A three-quarter cape h aHo useful. Deep packets Lite ii, and the shop-lifter manages 

to spread it conveniently over the counter. An ai> cppoH.une moment she transfers things 

she has managed to cover into the pockets/' 

Portraits of Reigning Sovereigns 

- by - 

Joseph Simpson, R.BA 

EEING that he is still but a little over thirty, the reputation of 
Mr. Joseph Simpson, the well-known artist, is indeed an enviable 
one, and what the future may hold in store for him it would be 
idle to prophesy. Even though his work may still, perhaps, find 
greater appreciation among his fellow-artists than in the eyes of 
the larger public, he would probably not wish it otherwise. His 
path to fame has been by no means an easy one, and the obstacles 
encountered and overcome before his distinctive and vigorous style at last com* 
pelled recognition might well have dismayed the most sanguine temperament 

His bent towards caricature showed itself even in his schooldays; caricature, 
he has confessed, occupied no small portion of the time which should have been 
the Government's when he joined the Ordnance Survey after leaving school; and 
it was his now famous series of portraits and caricatures w T hich at last brought his 
name prominently before the public. As one well-known critic has written of this 
side of his work: "The rich, rhythmic sense of line, the resounding effect of his 
deep blacks, the informing and suggestive pose, the almost Holbeinesque balance 
of the portrait, the technical fitness of the line employed to state the peculiarities 
of the personality portrayed — these qualities are not to be surpassed by any 
living caricaturist." 

His portrait of the late King Edward, one of the most characteristic, as it 
was one of the best known, portraits of His Majesty, brought him still wider 
recognition, even to the extent of making his name familiar to the man in the 
street. This portrait found favour in the eyes of King Edward, who purchased 
the original for his private collection, while a signed proof of it was bought for 
the Scottish National Portrait Gallery and added to the permanent collection* 

At the exhibitions of the Royal Society of British Artists his fine series of 
portraits have been something of a sensation, and among those who have been 
purchasers of 'his work are Sir Alfred East, R,A*, the President of the Society, 
and Mr. Frank Brangwyn, A.R.A. 

The remarkable series of portraits of eight of the reigning Sovereigns of 
Europe reproduced in the following pages are thoroughly characteristic examples 
of Mr* Simpson's work. Executed with all his well-known breadth of treatment, 
these powerful presentments convey a most vivid impression of the living subjects, 
with just sufficient insistence on the salient features of each to accentuate the like- 
ness. The native dignity of the monarchs has never been more successfully presented. 

NOTE : Those readers who would Kite to possess these portraits 
in more permanent form will he glad to know that we are having 
a limited number or special art proofs printed upon superfine art 
paper. These will he mounted upon toned paper and enclosed in a 
wrapper, the price for the series of eight heing Is., or Is, 6d, post 
free, packed flat. Orders should he sent to 4t The Strand Magazine, 
George Newnes, Limited, 3-13, Southampton Street, Strand, London, 
\V,C. A number of copies' hearing Mr. Simpsons autograph will 
also he on sale for 2s, 6d., or 3s, 0<i* Kfffil^j ^TInI V?r"s; ITV 


Vol xl^W. 

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/^ I Original from 





(~* ns-\t\] * Original from 

Digitized by ^GOglC | ND | ANA UNIVERSITY 

A V oyage to Nowhere 


Illustrated by S. Davis. 

HAT is this?" she said 
He pushed it gently with 

his foot, 
said, "as if 
it were a 

It looks," he 

"There's no harm in trying," she said 

41 You will take the risk?" 

" I don't see how I am to keep you out," 

™ punt 

u It ts a punt," she said 

" There is practically no 
doubt about it," he replied 
"It is." 

*' Is it a safe punt, do 
you think ? " 

4t It has all the appear- 
ance of being a remarkably 
safe punt. If it were not 
I should ask you to get 
into it" 

"If it were notV 1 she 

" You would sink. I 
am a fair swimmer, I have 
learned the elementary 
rules for saving life at sea* 
We should both get wet, 

He paused 

" But what?" she asked 

"But we could easily 
get dry again/' 


A shade of disappoint- 
ment in that "Oh!" 

" Would you not want to 
get dry again ? " he asked, 

" Oh, yes ; I should like 
to, very much," 

They stood and looked 
at the pant. 

" As it seems such a 
safe punt I think I shall 
get in without your asking 
me to." 

"Do," he said 

"I don't think it will 
hold two," she said. 

"No? " 

He pressed the side of 
it down with his foot. 

"I think it might hold 

two," he said, 
Vol, *L-4a 


Original from 




" Neither do I," he said, and stepped in, 

" I wonder whose punt it is ? " she said, 

" So do I ; I like wondering." 

He unfastened the chain and pushed out 

" As it isn't our punt," he said, " we must 
get into the middle of the stream, where the 
owner of it can't reach us/' 

She put her hands behind her head and 
gazed up into the clear blue sky. He paddled 
gently in silence for a while. It was very 

" Sweet little duck ! " he murmured. 

She brought her eyes down quickly from 
the heavens. 

"The bird," he said, in haste. "The 
bird ; over there by those water-lilies." 

"Oh, the bird!" 

She returned to heaven. 

"You don't like ducks?" 

"Oh, yes; they are all right," she said. 

The trees drooped over the glassy water, 
which rippled as they floated past. The 
ducks looked round coyly, and then turned 
tail upwards, in search of worms, or fish, or 
anything to eat. 

The tails waggled. It was inexpressibly 

He stopped paddling. For a long time 
neither spoke. 

Then she sighed. 

" Was it wise of us to come out like this ? " 
she asked. 

" Most unwise." 

" What if the owner of the punt " 

" I was not thinking of him. He does 
not interest me. I do not even know his 

" But that is no excuse for taking his 

" None whatever. I never want excuses." 

"Then what will you say when we get 

" I don't suppose we ever shall get back. 
Do you want to get back ? " 

"Not particularly." 

"Then let us not bother about it." 

She lay back again, content. He dug the 
paddle into the water fiercely three times, 
and frightened a rat upon the bank. The 
timid creature winked at them and fled. 

" Where are we going ? " she asked. 

"Nowhere. And I think" — this with an 
earnest air — " I think we shall soon be there 
— I think we shall soon be there." 

" That sounds like Maeterlinck," she 

" Only because I said it twice." 


11 What happens when we get there ? " 

"All sorts of preposterous things, which, 
if they happened anywhere, would be stopped 
at once by the police and others." 

" Such as taking voyages in other people's 

" That and other more delightful things." 

" Is it safe to go there ? " 

" No j that's why we're going." 

"You frighten me. What kind of things 
am I to expect ? " 

u You want to know the things that happen 
nowhere ? " 

He drew in the paddle and once more let 
the vessel float. On they went with the 
stream, and on and on. 

A couple of fluffy birds on a bough looked 
at them and then at each other and smiled. 

He lay down in the bottom of the punt 
and looked across at her with half-closed 

" You want to know the things that happen 
nowhere ? " 

" You may tell me," she replied, her gaze 
still upon the heavens. 

"It is a place where everything happens 
exactly as you want it to happen. If you 
write a book, the first publisher you meet 
snaps it up and it goes into its fiftieth 
thousand in a month." 

" I didn't come out here to write a book. : 

" No ; but it would if you did." 

"Are you suggesting that it wouldn't be 
the case if I wrote a book anywhere ? " 

" No ; I wasn't thinking of you" 

" Not thinking of me ! " She opened wide 
her eyes. 

" Not in that connection. I — I wish you 
wouldn't look at me like that." 

She turned away suddenly. 

"I didn't know I was looking at you in 
any particular way." 

" You weren't. It was only my imagination. 
Besides, I like it — but we mustn't." 

"I don't understand. I think jjou had 
better go on describing the things that 

"Yes." He pulled himself together. "Yes, 
I had better. It is a place where people say 
and do things which have no relation to the 
world of reality ; where men with no money 
to support themselves speak to girls as if 
they had enough to support two ; where 
everything that is sensible and discreet and 
rational and worldly and common sense and 
proper and allowable and thinkable and 
possible and — and " 

He paused for more words. They would 

She bent low over the side of the punt 



and studied her reflection in the water. She 
seemed to find satisfaction in the sight. 

tl Where everything that any man not a 
fool ought to remember is forgotten in the 
presence of two eyes, two lips, and the sun 
shining through brown hair" 

He kicked a cushion angrily. 

" I think you might give me credit for a 
nose as well," she said, 

" I had not forgotten it" 

Another pause. This time a large one* 
The punt caught in a projecting tree and 
swung round against the bank. 

I( We have stopped," she said. "We seem 
to have got there," 

He raised his head and studied the land- 

" Apparently we have/* he said, 

M I wonder," she said, " if it is as you 
described it?" 

She caught a water-lily and began picking 
off the petals one by one while he watched. 
She was counting them. So was he. They 
were both very thoughtful when the counting 
was over, 

u How could you he so brutal to a flower?" 
he asked. 

" It wasn't hurt. It told me its secret," 

" Was it a nice secret ? " 

She nodded her head, 

" May I know it ? " he said. 

" You probably know it already, At any 
rate, you ought to." 

"Ought I?" 
1 "Yes." 

" If I know it, ought I to tell you ? n 

"I'm not sure." 

" But, as the water lily has told you, I am 
relieved of the responsibility of deciding." 

" I suppose so," she said, trailing the 
maimed stalk through the water, 

"Yes," he said, thoughtfully. 

"Yes," she echoed; and it sounded as if 
what she meant were " No," 

He moved suddenly, with impatience, 

" What is the matter ? "' she asked. 

'* I J m struggling ; it's nothing serious," 

" Is it likely to upset thtt punt ? " ■ 

" No ; I'm only struggling with a sense of 

11 Who's winning?" 

"The sense of duty has won." 

M Wasn't that a little unexpected ? " 

*' The betting was the other way ; but the 
sense of duty has won. Look here, I want 
to talk to you seriously." 


"Original from 

M ( WE HAVt STOmilV * Hli 5A1U* ' Wt Sli*..\J TO HAVE «0T TUKK& 



She sat up, straightened out her skirt, 
clasped her hands across her knee, and bent 
forward with an air of portentous solemnity. 
"Well?" she said. 

" Please don't look like that," he moaned ; 
11 the struggle is beginning all over again." 

" Really, how am I to look ? If the sight 
of me upsets you, hadn't you better turn 



" It isn't that it upsets me ; but it gives the 
sense of duty so little chance." 

"Well, I'll look quite different." 

She tilted her hat at a fascinating angle 
and smiled a beaming smile. 

"That's worse," he said. "Oh, much 

"Well, what am I to do?" she cried, in 

"You can't help it," he groaned, "and I 
can't help it. But I've got to help it." 

This fiercely, with a savage attack upon a 

"What is the matter?* she asked, in be- 

" Nothing. Listen ! I'm a great friend of 
your father, and he has been very good to 
me. Therefore I am under a sort of ob- 
ligation to give you good advice." 

" Do you think I am likely to take it ? " 

" Oh, I hope not. I have noticed in you 
lately signs of an inclination to make a 
horrible mistake." 

"Have you?" 

"Yes. You will pardon me for my im- 
pertinence in meddling in what does not — I 
mean, ought not to concern me, but for the 
last few weeks a most undesirable and in- 
eligible young man has been hanging round 
you, and I have noticed that you have been 
giving him some encouragement." 

" What — what do you mean ? " 

She wondered and was angry. 

"Please don't be annoyed. My sense of 
duty has won — and duty must be done." 

" Go on," she said, curtly. 

"Thank you. You know I wouldn't do 
this if it weren't for the respect I have for 
your father. Very well. I have to warn you 
that this young man is quite impossible. He 
has no money, and apparently no power of 
making any. He picks up a little here and 
there, but never knows where the next is to 
come from ; and if he became engaged to 
anybody he would have to borrow from her 
to buy the ring. I don't think you under- 
stand the kind of poverty that his poverty is." 

" Whom on earth are you talking about? " 

"It would not be fair to mention any 

"Then what have / done to encourage 

"More than you ought I have been 

"Then you have been very impertinent." 

" Exactly. I have. But duty is duty." 

" I don't believe it is. Not in a case like 

" If I have not done right, I apologize. But 
I must warn you to avoid this fellow. I won't 
say he is a mere fortune-hunter ; but to the 
world he has every appearance of being one. 
And think of the position if you do become 
engaged to him. How is he to take you 
anywhere unless you pay for both ? How is 
he to give you all the necessary jewellery, and 
to present you with extravagant bouquets 
when you go to dances ? Is the bill to 
be sent to you ? * Wear these for my sake. 
Terms, cash on delivery.' " 

" I really don't understand what you are 
talking about When do I encourage people 
of that class ? " 

" A gentleman of that class," he replied, 
slowly, " has been so much encouraged that 
he has nearly lost his head. His heart went 
long ago; and if his head were to follow 
there would be disaster." 

"Well, what am I to do?" 

" Don't allow him to go for long walks with 
you alone. Do not be drawn into frivolous 
and flippant conversation with him, but con- 
fine your remarks, when you make any, to the 
weather and the Academy. Above all, do 
not on divinely glorious summer afternoons 
go out with him in a punt " 

He stopped suddenly. • 

" I beg your pardon," he said ; " I've been 
giving too much advice." 

"No," she said; "it is doing me good. 
Go on." 

He turned over and lay full length, with 
his eyes fixed on the bottom of the punt. 

"Well, don't go out with him in a punt 
on divinely glorious summer afternoons and 
emphasize by every look and every move- 
ment the fact that you are most distractingly 
beautiful I speak impartially and coldly — 
as a friend of your father." 

She was gazing away from him, and her 
fingers were nervously picking the stalk of 
the water-lily to pieces. 

" Speaking as a friend of my father," she 
said, in a voice so low that he could scarcely 
catch the words, " would you tell me whether 
his heart is really lost or merely affected by 
the fineness of the afternoon ? " 

" Oh, do be more careful ! " he groaned. 
" You are not taking my advice*" 



"Yes, I am ; I'm awfully cautious. Is his 
heart " 

"Yes, quite gone. Six doctors all fully 
qualified would take ten years to find it." 

"So that, being quite heartless, he is able 
to give cold- 

** Yes, I sup- 
pose that is it. 
Think of it. 
Suppose dur- 
ing the period 
of engagement 
you were in 
town together, 
and it were 
time for lunch. 
You would 
make straight 
for Prince's or 
the Carlton. 
Think of him 
making frantic 
efforts to steer 
you in the 
direction of an 
A + B.C* shop. 
How can he 
take you to a 
theatre when 
he has never 
been in any- 
thing higher 
than the pit? 

"Yes/' she 
said, thought- 
fully, " it would 
have to be 
quite a short 

He looked 
up quickly. 

14 But how 
on earth," he 
said, fiercely, 
" is he to face 
your relatives? 
Can you pic- 
ture him going 
to your father 
and saying, * I have proposed to your daughter 
Cfladys and I trust you to provide us with 
enough to live on l ? " 

" Papa is quite ready to do that He has 
often told me not to bother about money." 

He seemed to be trying to crush his head 
b with -his fists. 


11 What's the good of having money," she 
asked, " if you can't marry anybody you 
like? Father was saying the other day that 
he objected on principle to the concentration 
of targe masses of money in the hands of one 

family. It 
leads to over- 
or something. 
I know he said 
so, distinctly, JJ 
She shook 
her head at 
him in re- 
proach. But 
she did not 
look seriously 

His tone 
was wild and 
despai ring. 
"Oh, it's all 
very well talk- 
ing like that, 
but the thing 
is impossible. 
A fellow who 
can rely en- 
tirely on what 
his wife brings 
is a contemp- 
tible hound 
I've said so 
often to lots 
of people. It's 
i m poss i ble* 
Let's go back ; 
it's getting 

He jumped 
up and began 
pushing the 
punt vigor- 
ously from the 
bank. He 
avofded her 
gaze, in which 
there was dis- 
and alarm. She 
struggled with 
a lump in her 
throat. He sat up and paddled vigorously, 
At last she found her voice. It was quite 
successfully cold and unconcerned 

" ^ han ^(1j!py^5)yg^ l JJ she said, "for all 
the advii|Ga^hU|t|af||^^ c &mson proposes, in 
spite of'afrtttkr^efl^ 1 ^ the way, I think 
we shall not find the difficulties insuperable-'* 





He stopped, as if struck by a thunderbolt 

" Pinson ! " he gasped. 

"Yes. I have often suspected Frank " 

11 Frank Pinson! Gladys, you don't mean to 
say Great Scot ! you dotft suppose " 

He flung the paddle down with a clatter 
and came towards her, 

"Gladys, do you seriously think Fve been 
talking all this time about Pinson?" 

She looked away. 

14 Why, whom else could you be referring 
to? And you've no right to call me Gladys," 

u No right I No," Trembling with 
passion, he buried his face in a cushion by 
her side. " No, Pve no right, But Pinson 
— that fellow ! Heavens, you can't mean it I 
My darling, my darling, you don't mean it — 
say you don't mean it ! " 

The doubt and fear had passed, leaving 
her face radiant and happy. With a 
timid n©wgpfl^Cfro*he touched his hair. 
It ^D^NAlMVHSIff' touches, but be 
felt it, and in a moment she was in his 





Fin, L— A handfome dfigon-fly which hot jutt evoked into the winytd state from the ugly objecl tern beneath it. 


Author of ** Mi nut f Marmli of Nature** etc. illustrated from Original Photographs if tkt Author. 


HROUGHOUT the warm and 
sutmy months of the year 
dragon-flies vie in splendour 
with the butterflies with which 
they are contemporaneous, 
and on which they occasion- 
ally prey. The colours of 
both the larger and the smaller species, when 
seen flashing in the sunlight, are frequently 
of jeweHike splendour, and their graceful 
and skilful evolutions in the air, often com- 
bined with extraordinary rapidity of move- 
ment, excite our wonder and admiration, and 
bring envy to the mind of every human 

Dragon-flies, indeed, are really charming 
insects — charming in grace of form, in colour, 
and in movement. Frail though they are, 
their appetites are enormous. They are per- 
petually sweeping through the air on their 
powerful wings during the hours when their 
small prey is flying. When one of these 
insects is seen continually gliding up and 
down a stretch of lane or over a pool, we 
may know that it is hawking its quarry, In 
every one of its rapid flights the lives of 
numberless gnats, midge-flies, and similar small 
insects are briefly terminated in the enormous 
jaws of this aerial dragon. Should a moth 
or butterfly cross its path it is captured in 

mid-air, and a moment or two later its wings 
may he seen tumbling earthwards, but the 
body has found its way into the dragon-fly's 
capacious mouth, A butterfly is, of course, 
a big capture, but if a dragon-fly is captured 
while hawking, and its mouth is opened, it 
may be found to contain a still larger quantity 
of small prey. 

Since, then, the dragon -flies may be 
classed with the swallows, bats, etc., in the 
work of clearing the atmosphere of many 
troublesome insects, we may add to their 
other good qualities that they are extremely 
useful insects. Nevertheless, with all their 
charms and usefulness, they have an evil 
reputation of long standing. In the rustic 
mind they have ever been associated with 
superstitious dread. In Scotland they are 
known as "flying adders''; in many parts 
of England as "horse-stingers," or as "devil's 
darning-needles" {whence comes the rustic 
suggestion that they sew up the lips and 
ears of bad boys).; while in the Midlands 
they are erroneously called "hornets, 15 In 
America they are " snake - doctors," being 
supposed to act as physicians to water- 
snakes. Eve^ the name " dragon-fly " savours 
f»- A Ajr iL| 1 1 1 ■.1 1 i \\j 1 1 
superstjuan,.- k 1 1 m i -.rc n r itv 

It is, mMTOre,4i« i t6 , fl4 f w(>ndere(l at that 
country people and children (who are always 



Fig, Z>— Two dragon- II v nymphs btlaw water, one burrowing in the mud 
and »od. while the other it hurrying to gel under cover, 

more ready to accept an irrational statement 
than use their own powers of observation) 
should have developed a dislike for these 
insects. Besides, it is not difficult to under- 
stand how, in the dark ages, these super- 
stitions arose ; for if the rustic eye ever 
watched a dragon fly emerging into atmo- 
spheric life, it witnessed a scene more won- 
derful than any of the marvels performed by 
the greatest witch or magician ever heard 
of — an event which the prevailing ignorance 
of that time could magnify and exaggerate 
into something very sinister and terrible, 

Dra^on-fiies arc perfectly harmless insects, 
and even the largest species may, when cap- 
tured, be handled fearlessly ; for in spite of 
the fact that they assume threatening attitudes 
with the tip of the abdomen, yet they are 
totally destitute of stinging organs. Neither 
can they bite with sufficient force to pene- 
trate the human skin, although their jaws are 
most formidable weapons to the insects on 
which they prey. 

In strolling by a pool on a sunny day we 
may observe resting on the stem of a water- 
plant a dragon fly such as that shown in 
Fig, i 

though they had been newly varnished, and 
its flattened and angled body is adorned with 
velvety hues of yellow and tawny browns, 

while with every movement of its head 
the light plays upon its large eyes with 
beautiful effects. It makes no attempt 
at flight, for it has only just attained its 
winged life, and its wings have not yet 
acquired muscular activity. But per- 
haps an hour before, this handsome 
insect was an ugly, creeping thing bur- 
rowing in the mud at the bottom of 
the pond. Indeed, we have but to 
glance beneath the insect as it rests 
to see the image of its former self 
{Fig, i). The ugly object seen appa- 
rently climbing the stem is an empty 
skin from which the handsome dragon- 
fly has just emerged. The thing seems 
incredible, but If we watch for awhile 
amongst the w f ater-w + eeds we shall probably 
have revealed to us the whole process of 

A dragon-fly does not, like a butterfly or 
moth, change from its larval or caterpillar 
stage into a quiescent pupa or chrysalis, but 
as it moults its successive skins it gradually 
becomes more like the adult form, its wings 

Ft*. 3. 

Fig. 4.- The nymph* hiding in the mud and awaiting the 
approach of their prey. 

appearing as short, scale-like appendages. 

Its final transformation, however, corresponds 

more nearly to that of butterflies, moths, and 

Its wings glisten in the sunlight as beetles, when they assume the winged state 

from the chrysalis stage. In other words, the 
caterpillar and the chrysalis stages are, in the 
case of dragon-flies, merged into one, and 
the product is termed a nymph. 

From May until the middle of October a 
peep amongst the reeds and rushes by the 
pond or by the river- side may reveal these 
dragon-fly nymphs leaving tin- watery depths 
to change their forms and become denizens 
of the air. They may be slender or broad- 
bodied forms, according to whether they are 
to produce a slender-bodied dragon fly or a 
broad-bodied vswt such as that shown in 

Fi& ^ N ft* B *l "ff ^hff WlW are slender or broad- 
bodied species, their method of transformation 

-One or the nymphs capture* a worm that h*i worked iu • ^ . , ,. i . . + ,i^ A ^ 'j ,* , 

way between the itonei, into the winged state is almost identical 




suddenly ctAckt, and thrown 

Vt opening I he head and 

iU-jfiix of 1 he dragon ■ fly 

appear, and— 

In Fig* 2 two 
nymphs of the 
broad - bodied 
species seen in 
Fig, 1 are shown 
in their aquatic 
surround i rigs. 
One is hiding in 
the manner 
characteristic of 
the species by 
burrowing into 
the flat surface 
mud, while the 

dually pr 
wards until the nyi futt two 
pain of leg) arc relented. 

other (which has been dis- 
turbed) is hurrying to get 
under cover. The body 
is covered with brown 
hairs t and in colour the 
nymph closely resembles 
the mud, and when it rests 
buried near the surface its 
protection is perfect, for, 
from above, it becomes 
quite invisible. 

Although itself invisible, 
it keeps a sharp look-out 
for approaching prey, for it possesses 
a most voracious appetite. Worms, 
water-spiders, and the larvae of almost 
all aquatic insects constitute its regular 
food, but even smaller individuals of 
its own and other dragon-fly species 
frequently provide a special dish. 

The nymph is provided with a ntask^ 
or singularly developed lower lip, which 
folds up in front of its mouth, and can 
be rapidly projected when its prey 
approaches. This food-catching appa- 
ratus is provided at its end with jaw- 
like appendages that readily grasp the 
unfortunate victims. 

In Fig. 4 the two nymphs appearing in 
Fig. 2 are again shown, hiding and awaiting 
a meal, while in Fig, 3 one of them is seen 
to have seized a worm which has worked its 
way between the stones. 

It will be observed that in Figs, 2, 3, and 
4 the nymphs may be recognized by the pro- 
jecting points at the end of the abdomen. 
These points consist of five tiny valves which 
open into a tube that penetrates the body, 
and into which water is sucked. From this 
water the respiratory apparatus extracts the 
oxygen, and then the vitiated water is 
expelled. When the nymph is suddenly 
alarmed this water is forcibly ejected, and 


the nymph is then driven forward with con 
siderable speed, after the manner of the flight 
of a rocket. 

After feeding for eleven months at the 
bottom of the pond, the sluggish and ugly 
nymph prepares to change its mode of life, 
It slowly climbs the stem of a water- weed 
until it reaches the surface of the water. 
There it rests, and pokes out its nose into 
the atmosphere like a miniature crocodile, as 
if afraid to make the final plunge, It may 
rest there for an hour, or even several hours j 
then, as if decided to act, it again' resumes 
its journey up the stem. Sometimes the 
ascent is only for an inch or two 
above the surface of the water, while 
other nymphs will travel several feet 
before coming to rest. 

Extraordinary internal changes 
then take place within the skin of 
the nymph while it holds tightly to 
the stem by means of its legs. Per- 
haps after only ten minutes' exposure 
to the atmosphere these changes 
become visible. The back of the 
thorax, or middle division of the 
nymph, is seen to swell up and crack, 
and through the opening the thorax 
of the dragon-fly is seen 
protruding. Slowly it 
bulges outwards until, at 
the end of a minute, the 
head and thorax are com- 
pletely released (Fig. 5), 

Almost immediately 
one is struck by the size 
of the fly that is emerg- 
ing from the nymph skin, 
for it is at once obvious 
that the head and thorax 
of the fly are much larger 
than those of the nymph 
from which they deve- 

Ptg. 7. — The third pair of leai 
then foHaw.afld— 

loped. More 
marvels then 
quickly follow, 
and in less than 
half a minute the 
first two pairs of 
legs are wi t h d raw n 
from their sheaths 
(Fig. 6). 

Half a minute 
later still the fly 
is seen to have 
*xt -nded its bod m 

Still 'fcSl9 M *SJ NI VER ^K-A, the «W tW 

htinutct the fly it free all 
but tiie tip of iti abdomen. 

and its third and 



Rb, 9,— ft juddenly fa*t« iti 
head and forepart* And graipi 
the Upper part of the empty 
nymph tlcin. Then comes i 
mighty pull, and — 

largest pair of legs 
are almost released 
{Fig. 7)* The body 
then still farther 
protrudes, and at 
the end of another 
minute the third 
pair of legs are 
free (Fig. 8), and 
the fly is sus- 
pended head 
downwards, held 
only by the tip of 
the abdomen, 
which has yet to 
be detached from 
the nymph skin. 
In this apparently uncomfortable position the 
fly rests while it gains strength for its final 
emergence, for the next effort is a stupendous 

one that requires all 
its strength, 

For eighteen 
minutes the'fly hung 
suspended as seen in 
Fig* 8, its tiny scale- 
like wings being plainly 
visible- At the end of 
that time, without the 
slightest warning, it 
suddenly raised its 
head and foreparts 
and, with a muscular 
effort worthy of an 
expert gymnast, 
readied forward and 
grasped the upper part 
of the empty nymph 
skin, when for an instant its body formed a 
curve {Fig. 9), and its short wings were seen 
projecting like the coat-tails of a man who is 
stooping* Then came a mighty pull, and the 

dragon-fly was free 
(Fig. 10). 

Although the fly 
had safely emerged, 
yet, as it then ap- 
peared, it was very 
disappointing — in- 
deed, it looked quite 
de f u r m ed . A I m os t 
immediately, how- 
ever, it commenced 
to grow in a wonder- 
ful manner* The 
wings began to shake 
out their folds and 
expand (Fig. 1 1), the 
F ;J£2TKTw3r body being curved 

Fit. 10.— The dragon-fly 
ii free. 

Fig. 12.— Two minute* ifter it* 

fele&te from the nymph v-kin the fly 

commence* to develop in *J1 its 

beauty of form ind colour* 

so as to avoid 
touching them 
while they deve- 
loped. Two 
minutes after its 
release from the 
nymph skin it 
became obvious 
that the strange 
shape was not 
owing to any 
deformity, for the 
insect was deve- 
loping in all its 
beauty of form 
and colour (Fig. 

Five minutes 
after its emer- 
gence its wings 
were fully ex- 
tended (Fig. 13), 
although by no 
means fit for flight, for they hung like sheets 
of wet tissue paper. For a little over an 
hour and a half the fly rested as shown in 
Fig. 13, and during that time green blood 
coursed rapidly through the veins of the wings, 
strengthening and expanding every nervure, 
So the insect was prepared for another great 
muscular effort It was to use the muscles 
of its wings and new legs for the first time. 

Suddenly it raised itself on its legs away 
from the stem 
(Fig, 1 4 ), straight- 
ened out its body, 
and lifted its 
wings. Instantly 
thereafter the 
wings separated 
and assumed the 
positions of the 
normal resting 
attitude of the 
species (Fig. 15). 

So the dragon- 
fly concluded its 
marvellous deve- 
lopment, lis wings 
reflected the light 
with a glassy 
sheen, and its body 
appeared to be 
clothed in a rich 
and delicate suit 
of golden-,, browner 

1 1 - 1 emergence its winga appear 

hues being also (dly eitewQ. 



extended to the bases of the wings, while, 
at the slightest movement of its head, its 
huge eyes glistened with the fire of life. 

In the manner I have here described 
with pen and camera tnere came 
into being this individual of one of 
the commonest species of broad- 
bodied dra- 
gon-flies. The 
insect has no 

Fiji. 14.— It raiiei itself on iu Its* 

A way from the stem, straightens 

out its body, and— 

common name 
unless it is that 
of "horse- 
which, for 
reasons al- 
ready stated, 
I prefer not to 
use, but is fami- 
liar to entomo- 
logists under the title of Libellula depresm. 

After resting until the wings have become 
thoroughly dried, the insect makes its flight, 
which at first is not particularly strong. 
When, however, it commences hawking its 
prey its flight becomes very swift, and its 
species may often be seen at considerable 
distances from water gliding up and down 
over a particular part of a lane enclosed with 
trees, or along a woodland glade. A curious 
habit of this insect is that of selecting a par- 
ticular twig on which to rest after making its 
hawking expeditions. Time after time these 
insects will return to the same twig ; probably 
that twig constitutes the insect's dining apart- 
ments, where it masticates its mouth fills of 
insects captured during its hunting forays. 

When hawking this in- 
sect is not easy to capture, 
and it has a tantalizing way 
of continually approaching 
its pursuer to within strik- 
ing distance and then 
rapidly retreating, just as 
if it enjoyed the chase. 
When, however, it darts 
amongst trees with prey in 
sight, it is then more easily 
captured ; so intent on the 
pursuit is it that it fre- 
quently fails to observe its 
would-be captor. 

So m eti m es an indivi- 
dual may be captured 
whose abdomen is dusted 
over with a pale blue bloom 
which rubs off on handling. 
The blue insect is the 
mature male, and often a 

male and female insect will 
be found hawking in com- 
pany over a particular area, 
which they seem to mono- 
polize. Also, if one is cap- 
tured it seems a compara- 
tively easy matter to take 
the other later. Probably 
this is owing to the re- 
maining insect searching so 
closely for its lost mate that 
it eventually approaches 
too near its captor's net, 

The female insect de- 
posits a large number of 
eggs while poised upon the 
wing near the surface of 
the water, the eggs sinking 
and eventually hatching 
into the young nymphs, 
w T hose development we have previously 

Such, in brief, is the life story of an insect 
that has for ages past been associated with 
dread and superstition, and even to-day in 
many country places it is looked upon with 
awe. The village children, who hunt butter- 
flies with hat and coat, use those same 
weapons for protection when a dragon-fly 
approaches, and shout to their fellows, 
" Mind it don't sting yer ! n and so the 
younger children are instructed in natural 
history. Fortunately the spread of Nature 
knowledge is daily dealing a death-blow to 
such superstitions, and if this article assists 
in this direction the aim of its writer is 

Rg. 1 3. Reverse* it* wingi into the resting Attitude of iL# species. 



Illustrated by Frank Gillett, R.L 




-» - 

HURST was strolling along 
a lane when he came upon a 
motor-car which was drawn 
up close to the hedge. In it 
was a lady — a young one. 
She was alone. She seemed 
to be doing something to what he would 
have described as the " mechanism " of the 
car ; she was kneeling down by the driver's 
seat, apparently doing something to a handle. 
He felt it his duty to stop and observe the 
courtesies which are usual among motorists. 

" Is there anything wrong ? " 

She looked up. She was decidedly young 
— in fact, little more than a girl — and though, 
of course, that mattered nothing to a bishop, 
from a layman's point of view she was 
uncommonly pretty. At sight of him she 
smiled, as though she thought there was 
something comical in his appearance, but 
that there could be anything comical about 
a bishop's appearance seems doubtful. 

"I am rather delicately placed; perhaps 
there is something wrong with the lubrica- 
tion. Would you mind pulling this handle?" 

He pulled it quite easily. There seemed 
to be nothing amiss with it. He said so. 

" Perhaps there isn't ; perhaps there's 
trouble somewhere else. Do you know any- 
thing about motor-cars ? " 

41 Very little ; not so much as I ought, con- 
sidering that I have one of my own." 

44 Do you drive yourself?" 

He shook his head. 

" You can drive ? " 

"No man knows what he can do till he 
tries. In my case the trial has still to be 
made. I never have driven." 

She looked at him very steadily. Although 
he was a bishop he could not but notice how 
blue her eyes were and how charmingly her 
lashes shaded them. 

11 Would you mind," she asked, in a voice 
which was as sweet as her smile, "doing 
me a favour, as there is no one else about?" 

"What is the favour?" 

" I am going to start the engine. I want 

you to sit on that seat by the driver — I'm the 
driver— and keep your eye upon the gauge 
and tell me what the pressure is ; perhaps 
there's trouble there." 

"It doesn't seem to be a very difficult 
thing to do." 

"It isn't ; nothing could be simpler." 

She went to the front of the car and 
started the engine. 

" Now you get in on your side and I'll get 
in on mine, and then, when I put the clutch 
in, you keep your eye upon the gauge and 
tell me what the pressure is." 

A little doubtfully he got on to one seat, 
whereupon she got on to the other, inserting 
her person under the driving-wheel 

"Where," he asked, "is the gauge to 
which you refer ? " 

She pointed to what seemed to him to be 
a glass tube in which was a quantity of what 
appeared to be muddy oil. 

" You keep your eye on that, and then 
when I've got the clutch in tell me how high 
the oil rises. Wait till I give you the word." 

She did something to a handle with rather 
a jerk, and the car began to move. 

" You've started the car ! " he said. 

" I told you I was going to put the clutch 
in. Now keep both of your eyes fixed on 
the gauge." 

The pace of the car was quickening ; he 
showed signs of concern. 

" The car is going faster." 

" That's all right. You keep both your 
eyes fixed on the gauge, as I told you." 

"But, pardon me, it is not all right. I 
have a meeting of the G.F.S. to address in a 
very few minutes. I merely came out to 
collect my thoughts and to take the air." 

"What is the G.F.S. ?" 

The Bishop's tone as he replied was more 
than a trifle dry. 

" I am afraid I have not much time to tell 
you about the G.F.S. just now; but if you 
will attend the meeting which is to be held 
presently 1 shall be happy to give you all the 
information you require. Be so good as to 
stop the car at once- There is Rutter, the 



vicar, standing at 
his gate with his 
family and some 
friends. I expect 
they have come 
out to look for 
me. Please put 
me down at the 

I ns tead of 
showing signs of 
slowing, the car 
seemed to be 
going quicker. 
Certainly the 
party outside the 
Vicarage gate 
saw them com- 
ing, apparently 
with some symp- 
toms of surprise. 
The vicar took 
out his watch 
and shouted 
something. What 
it was was not 
quite clear; pro- 
bably he was calU 
ing the Bishop's 
attention to the 
hour. The young 
woman at the 
driving - wheel 
shouted back:— 

* The Bishop 
is taking me fur 
a spin." 

That the state- 
ment was palpably untrue did not seem to 
lessen the surprise of the party at the gate 
as the car, flying by, enveloped them in a 
cloud of dust. 

" How dare you say such a thing/' 
exclaimed the Bishop, "even in jest ? Why 
did you not stop when I told you ? Stop 
the car this instant ! " 

All that the young woman said was, " Keep 
your eyes on the gauge," 

Instead of keeping them on the gauge her 
companion fixed his eyes on her. His tone 
was righteously stern. 

w What is the meaning of this scandalous 
behaviour ? Have I been mistaken in you ? 
I bid you again to stop." 

All she said was, " How about the pres- 
sure Pa- 

tricks with me* 
Do you hear 
what I say? Are 
you going to stop 
or am I to make 

** I suppose," 
she observed, 
"we are going 
nearly fifty miles 
an hour j is that 
fast enough for 


? If it isn't 


I'll get her going 
when she's 
warm," Turning 
half round in his 
seat he made a 
movement as if 
to grip her hand, 
" Take care ! " 
she exclaimed, 
"If you start to 
monkey with the 
driver there will 
be a spill ; and, 
at this pace, that 
will mean sudden 
death for both of 

"Are you 
going to stop the 

u How about 
that pressure ? '* 

"I don't 
believe there 
was ever any- 

thing wrong with it," 
" I never said there was." 
w You led me to suppose it* 
" Don't be silly." 

Never had he been addressed in such 
fashion before— and by a young person who 
he was rapidly coining to the conclusion was 
little better than a minx. All bishops are 
famed for their dignity ; the Bishop of Mid- 
hurst especially prided himself on his — he 
had to keep tight hold of it just then to 
prevent it from becoming a minus quantity. 
He appreciated the truth of what she said, 
that to play tricks with a motor-car going at 
that pace would involve serious risks to both 
of them* He was a nervous man, which was 
one reason why he had never tried to drive 
his own . -far : the idea of what might 
u I warn you that if yon don't stop the car happen, jtjthere.w^'^-i^ccident made him 
at once of your own free will, I shall make go colaafrJvier!- ^TStrHg r it for granted that 
you. I don't intend to allow you to play any ^v^ry human being has a better side, he 



proceeded to appeal to that portion of this 
young woman. 

" I cannot think that you realize of what 
outrageous conduct you are being guilty." 

"Did you say faster? I suppose we are 
going at nearly three times the limit now ; 
goodness only knows what will happen to us 
if we are trapped." 

That cold feeling became more pro- 
nounced; probably it was accentuated by 
the rush of the air through which they were 
tearing. He had difficulty in keeping his 
hat on — he was not attired for motoring. 

" Slower, please — slower I " 

This appeal did seem to reach her ears; 
she moderated the pace considerably; per- 
haps that was because they were going round 
a corner ; as it was they took it much faster 
than they ought to have done 

"I never care," she explained, "to go 
round a corner on less than two wheels. 
Some people do it on one, but I think that's 
wrong — don't you ? Does this pace suit you 

" We are still going far too fast. I always 
instruct my own chauffeur never to exceed 
the legal limit, and, if possible, not to average 
more than fifteen miles an hour." 

"Do you ever ask him to get out and 

" May I ask your name ? " 

" You may, but I don't see why I should 
tell it you; you're a stranger to me. Is 
it usual in the circles in which you move 
for men to ask women to whom they are 
unknown what their names are ? Personally, 
I prefer to be properly introduced ; it seems 
to me that you are much too thrusting." 

That such an accusation should be hurled 
at the Bishop of Midhurst was, it seemed to 
him, almost more than he could bear; he 
who was famous for his almost strait-laced 
observance of the most rigid proprieties. He 
sat back in his seat with what was very like a 

" I can only suppose, young woman, that 
you don't know what you say. I appeal to 
all your better instincts — stop this car and 
let me alight. I cannot conceive that you 
can realize even in the faintest degree the 
heinousness of the conduct of which you are 
being guilty." 

" Have you any friends in the Church ? 
You speak as if you were a parson." 

" Is it possible that you don't realize that 
I am the Bishop of Midhurst ? " 

" Yes ; and I'm the Queen of Sheba. If I 
let her whizz it might clear the air ; it seems 

want it" 

The speed of the car increased so suddenly 
that he had to hold on to the brim of his hat 
with both hands. 

" There will be an accident," he said. 

" Think so ? I wonder ! Let's calm her 
down." The speed of the car decreased 

"I should have thought," observed the 
Bishop, "that your own instincts of self- 
preservation would have caused you to be 
more cautious. If there were an accident 
while we are moving at such a pace, to say 
nothing of ourselves, the probabilities are that 
, your car would be irretrievably damaged." 

" It's not my car." 

" Not your car ? * 

" Not hardly — you've stolen it" 

" I have stolen it ! " The Bishop seemed 
to be reduced to the verge of gasping. " Do 
you seriously mean to say that this motor-car 
is not your own property ? " 

" I should think I do. I was coming 
along and I saw a motor-car, and I stopped 
to look at it, as I always do, and then you 
came along and put it into my head that it 
was just the sort of car to steal — and here 
you are bolting off with it" 

" Have you," gasped the Bishop — he had 
come to gasping — "no idea to whom it 
belongs ? " 

" I rather fancy that it belongs to one of 
the people at the Vicarage. As we went 
past I saw an elderly party tearing down the 
path, with a chauffeur at his heels, and both 
of them seemed to be anxious about some- 

" Sir John Basingstoke ! I remember 
Rutter saying that because there was no 
garage at the Vicarage Sir John had left his 
motor-car in the lane. It seems incredible ! 
You audacious young woman ! " 

"You elderly old dear! I say, are you 
married ? " 

" I have been married nearly thirty years. 
My wife was among the party of ladies who 
were standing at the Vicarage gate." 

" No ! I thought that one of them seemed 
to be a trifle flurried. Won't she talk to you 
about cutting the G.F.S. to take me out for 
an airing ? " 

"I had not dreamed that such things 
could be, nor that there could be such 
depravity in one so young." 

"There you are — at it again. Here's a 
village ; we'll let her whizz." 

" Abandoned girl ! " 

The words were lost in the rush of air 
caused by the sudden quickening of the car. 
In anothtT moment; they were rushing through 
a village street at a pace which, in the 



circumstances, was distinctly monstrous. 
There was the usual dog in the centre of 
the road ; to avoid it the car swerved to one 
side. The Bishop's hat flew off. 

" My hat ! " he screamed. But no one 
heeded ; the car tore on. Had he been a 
judge of that kind of thing, and in a fit state 
of mind to play the critic, he would have 
been aware that, though the pace was wicked, 
the driving was first-rate. Had there been 
a bad, or even a poor, driver at the wheel 
there would soon have been trouble, but this 
girl drove with a coolness, knowledge, and 
skill which reduced the risk of danger to 
vanishing-point. The car might not be hers, 
but the trained hand would have been quick 
to see that in her time she had driven cars 
of all sorts and sizes, under all kinds of 

" You ought to be thankful," declared the 
Bishop, when the village street was left 
behind, " that you have come through that 
street without doing injury to yourself or to 

" Why, bless you, that's nothing ! I've 
brought much bigger cars through larger 
places at a much higher speed than that. 
Td back myself to take the biggest car that's 
on the road from London to Manchester at 
fifty miles an hour and never do worse than 
graze a chicken. My good man, it's the 
driving does it. You could crawl and lay 
out every living thing you met. You seem 
to have lost your hat." 

" It blew off while we were going through 
the village ; I called out to you, but you 
would not stop." 

"That's all right — it was no loss; where 
you got the thing from I can't think. Are 
you a foreigner ? " 

" A foreigner ! What makes you ask me 
such a thing ? " 

" I'm judging from your clothes." 

" Judging from my clothes ! Are you so 
ignorant as not to know what it is right and 
proper that a bishop should wear ? " 

" I only thought they might be a foreign 
make. Halloa ! — -. here's larks ! We're in 
to it ! r 

They were rolling along an open country 
road. About a hundred yards ahead were 
three or four cottages. From one of them 
two men came hurrying — constables — who 
placed themselves in the middle of the road. 
As they appeared, what was probably the 
entire population of the other cottages came 
out to see the fun. 

"What's the matter?" asked the Bishop. 

The answer was succinct. " Trapped." 

"You don't mean to say that " The 

Bishop stopped short, possibly because he 
realized that to ask if they had been exceed- 
ing the legal limit would be too absurd. She 
replied to his question as if it had been 

" We have never been inside the limit, 
except, perhaps, once or twice by accident 
when I couldn't help it ; most of the time we 
have been going at a pace which will probably 
mean penal servitude for you, if they catch us. 
I shall have to run over those policemen if 
they don't look out." 

" For goodness' sake take care what you're 
doing ! " 

" It's for them to take care. Look out ! " 

She sounded a blast on the Gabriel whistle 
which seemed to rend the air for miles ; she 
hooted with the horn; she increased the 
speed, bearing down on the men in blue who 
w T ere standing right in the middle of the road 
as if she had resolved to make an end of 
them. For a second they continued to hold 
up hands of warning and to stand their 
ground ; then prudence prevailed. Each of 
them leaped to one side ; the car whizzed 
between them, right over the spot on which 
they had just been standing. 

" I thought you were going to kill them ! " 
cried the Bishop, holding on to his seat with 
both hands. 

"It would have been a case of suicide if 
anything had happened. They saw me 

" But aren't you going to stop ? I implore 
you, young woman, with all the force that 
is in me, to cease behaving in this horrible 
fashion and to stop." 

" Not much, while we are within reach of 
those two members of the constabulary — 
who, I expect, have lost some of the wool 
off the top of their heads. Hold on ; I'm 
going to take this next corner rather sharply." 

She did— at what seemed to the Bishop to 
be a criminal pace ; only the most skilful 
driving could have brought them safely round 
it at all. He sat still, apparently realizing 
that expostulation was vain — the destinies of 
this demon ride were in other hands than his. 
He was covered with dust ; his eyes, unpro- 
tected by glasses or goggles, were so much 
affected by the pace at which they had been 
going that he could scarcely see out of them ; 
his attire was disordered ; although the day 
was warm he was chilled to the bone. If 
only this dreadful young woman, who was 
playing him such.a.tucjci-pwould take pity on 
his haple!;s Jil ca i s■e L ! |l, But not she. On and on 
and on she sped, through lanes, round corners, 



avoiding human habitations, traversing what 
seemed to him to be a network of country 
with which, he could only hope t she was 
familiar. East, west, south, and north had 
become all the same to him ; he had not a 
notion where they were or in what direction 
they were speeding, Now and then they 
passed a vehicle— generally a farmer's cart ; 
a bicyclist, a stray pedestrian ; once some 
children with bunches of wild flowers in 
their hands. For the first time for some 
distance the young woman made a remarL 

hoped for the best ; to be candid, he had 
begun to realise that this young woman, who 
had him in her power, could drive, and that 
it would not be her fault if anything went 
wrong. The cloud of dust came nearer. 
There was a straight stretch of road in front 
of them. The other car came in sight His 
companion broke into exclamation* 

" Halloa! Of all the comfortable coinci- 
dences ! In the very nick of time !" 

She sounded the whistle, decreased the 
speed, and brought the car to a standstill 

r *"^ J 

'the car whjzzed between them. 

"There's another car coming; let's hope 
that they're driving carefully — there's only 
just room for two to pass," 

Looking ahead he saw a cloud of dust in 
front of them, winch he presumed indicated 
the car which was coming. 

tl l suppose it is no use my asking you 
to slacken your speed or to take the most 
ordinary precautions ? " 

" Have you ever passed, at tap speed, 
another car in a narrow lane? If you 
haven't you shall feel what it's like." 

He said nothing, recognizing the futility 
of speech. He held on to his seat and 

"What-ho!" she shouted. The other 
driver, who was also feminine, seemed to 
recognize in the stentorian shout a familiar 
sound. The approaching cur slowed, went 
slowly past^ stopping, perhaps, a dozen yards 
beyond. The Biahop's companion slipped 
from her seat and ran back to the other car, 
clambering into it; it began to move off as, 
kneeling on the seat, she shouted back at 
him : — 

"If you . take. f her back to the G.F.S., 

££ JiMfe* ,h ° CTd of ,be 

The car , quickening its pace> bore her 


3 2 9 

with it, leaving the Bishop of Midhurst in 
the other car, alone. He stood up and 
looked behind him. He would have shouted 
if he had thought it would be the slightest 
use ; he knew it would be but to waste his 
breath. The car passed round a corner out 
of sight. He followed with his eyes the 
cloud of dust which marked its track ; the 
way in which it twisted and turned showed 
the devious road the car was taking. At last 
that also passed from sight ; he was indeed 
alone. He sank on to his seat with a sound 
which was half sigh, half gasp ; taking out his 
handkerchief he tried to wipe some of the 
dust from off his brow. 

He had supposed, only an instant or two 
ago, in view of the treatment to which he 
had been subjected, that outrage could go no 
farther ; he had erred — this went a great deal 
farther. To have been fooled, kidnapped, 
borne off against his will in this mad, and 
even criminal, fashion — that was bad enough ; 
to be left, miles away from anywhere, in a 
country of which he knew nothing, stranded 
in a motor-car which belonged to someone 
else, and for which, probably, all the police 
of the country were by this time looking out 
— surely that was worse. 

But the relief of ceasing to feel him- 
self at the mercy of that wild young 
woman was so great that for the first few 
seconds he was positively content with his 
position. It was only by degrees that its 
true inwardness forced itself upon him. He 
scanned with his eyes so much of the sur- 
rounding country as he could see. Afar off, 
on the side of a hill perhaps two miles away, 
was a roof ; no other human habitation was 
in sight. He was not a young man ; he was 
portly, not much of a pedestrian ; he realized 
that the strain of that mad rush through the 
air had tired him out physically and mentally. 
What was he to do? Wait there until some- 
one came? In that case, what was he to say 
to the someone who did come ? If he was 
not careful, a pretty story would go the 
round of the place concerning the Bishop of 
Midhurst. It might be up against him all 
the rest of his life — how, instead of attending 
a meeting of the G.F.S., he had been borne 
off by a wild young woman in a borrowed 
motor-car. If he* started off to walk he 
would have to leave the motor-car by the 
roadside. He cared not a row of pins for 
the car or what became of it ; still, a certain 
amount of responsibility might be laid at his 
door if he left it wholly unattended in that 
lonely lane. Driving it was out of the 
question. Although he had been the owner 

of a car now for several years, he had no 
more notion how to drive one than the 
ordinary passenger in an express train has of 
how to drive the engine. 

While he was revolving in his mind. the 
various alternatives there came from the field 
through the gate in front of him an ancient 
man. The Bishop hailed him. 

" Where am I ? " he inquired. 

The ancient eyed him with weak and 
watery eyes, as if he found the question not 
an easy one to answer. Momentary reflec- 
tion showed the Bishop that the man might 
not be so stupid as he seemed. He amended 
the form of his inquiry. " In what parish 

amI? " . 

"This is Horsebridge parish, this be." 

" And where is Horsebridge parish?" 

Again the ancient stared. The Bishop 
had honesty enough to perceive that, from 
his point of view, he might again have cause 
to. Another emendation. " How far am I 
from the nearest house ? " 

"Couldn't rightly say." An interval. 
" Whose house ? " 

" Anybody's house." 

" Peter Wilkins — his be the nearest house, 
over on the hillside yonder." 

The ancient pointed a trembling finger to 
the roof which the Bishop could see for 

"How far is that?" 

" Maybe a mile across the fields, maybe 
four by the road. Peter's ill in bed ; there's 
only his sister when you get there. What 
might you be wanting ? " 

" I want to get away from here." 

It really was excusable if once more the 
ancient stared, since the Bishop might have 
gone away at any speed he liked by merely 
touching a handle. 

" Anything wrong with the thing ? " the 
ancient asked. 

" So far as I know, nothing ; only I can't 
drive it." 

" But you're in it." 

" Yes, I certainly am in it." 

" Came here in it, didn't you ? " 

" Unfortunately ; and the person who 
brought me has gone and left me stranded. 
I suppose you can't drive a motor-car?" 

" Drive ? No, that I can't. I can't drive 
nothing but a plough." Then, after momen- 
tary reflection, " You're beyond me, you are, 
asking me if I can drive a motor-car ; it ain't 
likely. I've got to get home, I have." 

And he started off to do it. It seemed to 
the Bishop that it would be no use asking 
him tollfl^NAltftVElKll'P consented, very 



"drive? no, that I can't, i can't drive nothing but a plough. 

little would be gained. His conversational 
powers did not seem great ; he did not seem 
to be disposed to impart information even if 
he had it j he emphatically did not seem to 
be the kind of person who would be likely to 
be of practical service to a bishop in a delicate 
position. So the Bishop let him go > and 
he continued to be his own company for 
five-and-twenty minutes. He knew it was 
five-and-twenty minutes because every fifty 
seconds or so he referred to his watch* 
How slowly those five-and-twenty minutes 
went f He began by sitting still in the car ; 
then he stood up to look around him, climb- 
ing on to the seat to increase his horizon ; 
then he descended on to the road, walking a 
hundred yards or so in this direction and in 
that^ if only to stretch his legs, which were 
stiff and cramped ; then he peered at the 

mechanism of the car, If he had only been 
even moderately sure which were the proper 
handles to touch ! If ever there was a case 
in which ignorance was not bliss, this was 
one. It did stem ridiculous that he should 
have such a magnificent means of locomotion 
at his command and yet be rooted to the 
ground. So conscious did he become of 
this that at length he brought himself to the 
sticking- point of attempting to turn the 
handle which started the engine; The result 
was a lamentable failure ; he had had no 
idea that it was so hard to turn. He gave it 
what he meant to be a good pull ; the only 
consequence being that, though nothing 
happened to the engine, every muscle in his 
body was jarr^dl He had positively to sit 

d . ow Wi.%^Rf^rtfff I ? ad 5 & et ove f r ;E c 

shock to his system* If only one of the 



numerous photographers who were wont to 
request him for the honour of a sitting had 
come along just then ! 

That jar finished him. When he ascended 
from the road he got into the car ; not on to 
the front, but on to the back seaL There 
were several rugs in the bottom of the car, 
among them a huge one of pony skins. 
Settling himself as comfortably as possible, 
with his legs up on the seat, he wrapped this 
about him. To judge from appearances, if 
no one came along in the shape of a rescue 
party, his intention was to stay there for the 
rest of the night. Already the sun was sink- 
ing, through banks of thin clouds, into the 
west. It was nearly dinner-time. He had 
had only a scanty lunch ; practically no tea. 
The meeting of the G.F.S. had been fixed at 
an hour which would ensure its being over in 
time for a rather postponed dinner. He had 
reason to believe that Rutter had arranged to 
have a banquet in his honour ; if the banquet 
took place at the appointed time he certainly 
would not be there. He closed his eyes, as 
if to shut out the picture which his imagina- 
tion conjured up. 

Presently he looked again at his watch. 
About five minutes had passed since he got 
into the car. How the time did drag! If 
nothing else happened he would have to go 
somewhere in search of food. One of the 
chief ends and aims of his wife's existence 
was to see that he had proper and regular 
meals ; what must she be feeling if she even 
guessed that he was actually faint with hunger ! 
He would stay where he was, say, another 
quarter of an hour; then, somehow, some- 
where, food must be sought. 

The fifteen minutes went by— how slowly. 
He continued still another five. The mo- 
ment had arrived at which something must 
be done. Although he had to be most care- 
ful of his digestion, with which so many 
kinds of food disagreed, just then h6 would 
have eaten anything that could be eaten, 
indifferent to what might follow. Allowing 
the pony-skin rug to slip back upon the floor, 
he began to get off the seat. No matter what 
happened to the car he would have to leave 
it ; since no one ever seemed to come along 
that lane, the presumption was that it ran no 
risk of being stolen. He would have to start 
in one direction or the other in search of 
sustenance ; if he delayed, exhausted nature 
might render him incapable of movement. 

As he was stooping to open the door a 
sound fell on his ear. It came from behind 
him ; a cloud of dust was floating towards 
him through the air ; some sort of motor was 

approaching; not a large one, because the 
cloud was so small. He recognized the 
sound — it was a motor-bicycle. His spirits 
rose, his pulse quickened ; after that weary 
period of lonely waiting something was about 
to happen, help might be at hand. The 
bicycle came into sight — it was travelling at 
an illegal speed. The Bishop, getting on to 
the seat, waved his handkerchief, after the 
fashion of the shipwrecked mariner who, 
stories tell us, when a ship hoves in sight, 
waves a flag from the highest point of the 
desert island on which he has been stranded. 
It was plain that the bicyclist perceived the 
signal, as, unless he was purblind, he could 
hardly help doing. He slowed and, as he 
drew alongside, stopped. 

"What's up?" he asked. 

11 Can you drive a motor-car ? 


" Then " The Bishop hesitated. He 

scanned the " bicyclist with dubious eyes. 
After what had occurred he was suspicious 
of everyone; but this was a case of any 
port in a storm — the motor-bicyclist repre- 
sented the only port in sight. " Could you 
drive this one ? " 

"Like a bird! Whereto?" 

The celerity with which the fellow seemed 
to accede to his suggestion moved the Bishop 
to further hesitation. 

"What will you do with your machine?" 

"Put it on the other side of this hedge 
and send for it to-morrow. It will be all right 
there ; no one will sneak it, I bet a pound." 

There was a quality about the man's speech 
which the Bishop did not like; he showed 
such curious willingness to desert and risk 
the safety of his own machine for the sake of 
assisting an utter stranger. The Bishop felt 
sure that, looking as he did then, no one 
could have known him at sight to be the per- 
sonage he was ; why, then, did this stranger 
show such eagerness to render him this really 
considerable service ? He was already wheel- 
ing his machine to the gate through which 
that ancient man had come. Presently he 
returned without it. 

"You are quite sure you can drive?" 
demanded the Bishop. 

" I was born on a motor-car, or as good as." 

This was obviously untrue. The man's 
age, if nothing else, made that impossible ; 
he must have been born a good many years 
before motor-cars were invented. But he 
certainly manipulated the sparking-handle as 
one to whom such a thing was familiar ; the 
engine 1 (i^^^^d/E^lj^limbed on to the 
driver's seat", and the car was off, 



"Where are you taking me?" said the 

" You didn't say where you wanted to go 
to," said the man at the wheel. 

"You never gave me a chance. You 
ought not to have started as you did without 
giving me the opportunity of coming to an 

"That's all right I'll take you somewhere." 

"It's not all right!" 

The Bishop felt it was very far from being 
all right. The pace quickened; he had to 
sit down. It was a long-bodied car ; from 
the back seat, when the car was moving fast, 
it was not easy to get the voice to travel to 
the driver in front. 

"I insist upon knowing where you are 
taking me ! " he shouted. The man drove 
on ; perhaps he did not hear. The Bishop 
raised his voice still higher. " Do you hear 
what I say, sir? I insist upon knowing " 

He had to leave his sentence unfinished. 
He was sitting well forward, right on the 
edge of the seat, so as to give himself the 
best possible chance of being heard. Sud- 
denly the car was taken round a corner, 
so unexpectedly that the Bishop, whose 
adherence to the seat was precarious, was 
swung off it on to the floor. The driver, in 
apparent ignorance of what had happened — 
it could scarcely be said to be his business 
to look behind — went gaily on. It seemed 
incredible to the Bishop that such a thing 
could have occurred to him and be entirely 
ignored ; but he had got into the regions of 
the incredible that evening, in which only 
the unexpected seemed to happen. With 
some difficulty, the jolting being more 
obvious at the back of the car than in the 
front, he regained his seat. He was breath- 
less, bumped, and shaken; for the time he 
was quite content to keep still and let things 
slide. After all, he could hardly have got 
out of the frying-pan into the fire. This 
fellow must be taking him somewhere, and 
anywhere was better than nowhere at all. 

When they had covered another ten or 
fifteen miles — at the best of times the Bishop 
was not much of a judge of distance ; he was 
not at all just then — the car began to slow. 
All at once, without the slightest warning, 
it turned another corner — not into another 
road, but through a pair of great, wide-open 
iron gates into what seemed a gentleman's 
park. They were proceeding along what 
seemed to be an avenue bordered on either 
side by magnificent forest trees. 

"Where are you taking me?" demanded 
the Bishop, who had regained his breath and 

was able to make himself more audible now 
that the pace had become more moderate. 

The driver said nothing, but went steadily 
on. Presently, sweeping round a bend, on 
the other side of a wide stretch of Italian 
garden a great house appeared in view. 

" I insist," cried the irate and anxious 
passenger, " on your telling me, if you know, 
what place this is you are taking me to." 

Nothing came of his insistence ; the driver 
remained still. The car, continuing past 
what seemed to be endless pergolas, radiant 
with great masses of climbing and clustering 
flowers, drew up at the foot of a glorious 
flight of steps. 

" What," demanded the Bishop, holding 
on to the back of the driver's seat and 
speaking almost into his ear, " do you mean 
by this, sir ? What is the name of this place ? 
How dare yo